


The Trouble with Azkaban

by SwordSoup



Series: Wizard's omens [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Professors, Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Boy-Who-Lived Neville Longbottom, Child Abuse, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Diagon Alley, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Eventual Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, He's just more involved in this fic, Hermione Granger Needs a Hug, Magic, Neville Longbottom Needs a Hug, Peter Pettigrew Bashing, Quidditch, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Remus Lupin Needs a Hug, Ron Weasley Needs a Hug, Sirius Black Free from Azkaban, Sirius Black Needs a Hug, Time To Blow Up Some Aunts, eventually, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwordSoup/pseuds/SwordSoup
Summary: What do you do when a serial murderer with magical powers is out to get your godson and his friends? The same exact thing you do every other time similar circumstances appear.Unfortunately, with the addition of a massive grey dog, mysterious howling from deep within forbidden grounds, and black-shrouded imitations of death, things seem far darker than expected.
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens) & Harry Potter, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom & Harry Potter, Remus Lupin & Harry Potter, Sirius Black & Harry Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Wizard's omens [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616059
Comments: 89
Kudos: 235





	1. Blood and water

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello hello! I have arrived! Again! Several months later than I expected to!
> 
> I promise I have an excuse for taking so long to get this out. this chapter gave me HUGE amounts of trouble. I wrote and rewrote it at least six times, and all of them felt subpar. Part of it is because I had about 8 different ideas for how it should go. But, I finally settled on this! I'm not sure how to feel about it, but I truly hope that you all enjoy it. I'm sorry it doesn't have much action, but I really just needed to bridge the gap between this year and the last. The next chapter, as always, should have more substance. 
> 
> Without further delay:

In the heat of summer, people sometimes forget themselves.

This is _not_ an uncommon phenomenon, as demonstrated by a surprising amount of bookstore patrons. Aziraphale had been in the book-selling business long enough to know that people get _far_ too excited when sunny weather and gold-gilded pages enter the mix. They’ll squabble and fight over textbooks, tearing at ancient, extensively-bound spines, shouting at each other, and sometimes even at Aziraphale as well. This and an instance of someone trying to light the store on fire about fifty years ago had led to him changing his opening times for the summer holidays. These egregious crimes against nature (and books) are only one of the reasons why, now, he has closed the store entirely. The reasons for this new change are listed for viewing convenience below.

  * Magic lessons. 



As promised, Aziraphale and Crowley welcome Rubeus Hagrid into their home every week on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays. What he does there is a matter of great contention between the people who observe him lumbering within the building. In reality, he’d gotten a new wand only two weeks after he’d been cleared of all charges for the murder of Myrtle Elizabeth Warren. Fudge had begrudgingly been coerced into purchasing a new one, as if the small sum was such a _huge_ amount of money for the minister of magic to spend. At 16 inches long, with unicorn hair and hazel, Rubeus has yet to stop fawning over it. And, really, who could blame him? His enthusiasm for learning wandlore and spellwork was enough to make up for the occasional explosion. 

Aziraphale doesn’t mind -- as long as none of it harms his books. 

  * Job searching. 



Dobby the Free Elf may have been satisfied with his freedom from Malfoy manor at first, but it seemed to have gotten old to just wander around side streets and act as an occasional vigilante if the way that he moped around was any indication. So, by the beginning of summer, Harry had taken to sifting through old editions of the Quibbler and the Daily Prophet, searching with Dobby for jobs he might take on. They considered Gringotts -- too stuffy and formal -- the Daily Prophet -- A veritable propaganda machine -- the Leaky Cauldron -- too much like serving with the Malfoys -- and several security jobs. 

For now, he’s taken to doing temp work with the Hogwarts summer staff.

  * Babysitting. 



Crowley and Aziraphale, while well versed in child care (no matter how mediocre they might _be_ at it) find themselves increasingly busier with their godchildren and their 60,000 friends. 

All of them -- even _Death_ (Azrael, who visits on Fridays and pretends not to notice that Crowley _does_ happen to be their long-thought-dead brother) is a bit of a handful -- take more than a bit of elbow grease to wrangle into not causing daily explosions and committing crimes that might genuinely end them up in jail. 

“Azira _phale!_ You can’t just… Do that!”

Some days, of course, the mischief originates from _them_ , rather than the children around them. Harry blanches as he watches his Angelic godparent snap his fingers, a man halfways across the road dropping his coffee all over the front of his shirt.

“He was about to throw it in that woman’s face!” Hisses the Angel, looking a bit desperate to find an excuse for the abrupt act of Angelic wrath. “Oh- it was a last-minute decision, dear!”

Crowley, on the other hand, takes one look at the man’s horrified, pale face, and bursts into giggles. He ignores the confused glances the pedestrians around him shoot his way and laughs enough that he starts to choke. Neville, even after a week of staying with their group, still seems embarrassed by Harry’s godparent’s antics.

Neville had been picked up -- by Aziraphale and Harry, as Crowley had threatened to eat his grandmother -- at 9 pm sharp on a Wednesday, and had been well accommodated since then. Harry, who had once been confined to sleeping in a cupboard, was more than overjoyed to have someone vacationing at his house. He was also entirely unsubtle in trying to coerce Neville into living with them permanently. It hadn’t worked, of course, but that hadn’t seemed to stop him from trying. 

Aziraphale huffs, blushing. “Oh- stop laughing, Crowley! It really isn’t that funny.”

“You’re-” the Demon lets out an ungainly snort and tips his head back, devolving into another round of laughter, hands on his hips and grown-out hair shaking behind him. It flashes in the light, now hanging somewhere around his waist when not tied up in a bun. “You’re right, Angel, it isn’t funny- it’s- it’s bloody _hilariousss._ Who knew you had it in you?”

“You did!” Aziraphale gapes at him, his eyebrows drawing together in a confused, pitiful sort of expression. “You did, you- you-”

“Wiley serpent?” Suggests Harry, with a grin comparable to his father’s. This breaks Crowley entirely -- he leans over, heaving out great, shuddering laughs. It’s a bit disturbing - what with how far open his jaw stretches and how wide his eyes can go. Harry seems to be holding back laughter as well. 

The Angel gives up on his defense, rolling his eyes. He continues down the street and tries very hard not to smile.

“Ooo!” Harry points to a cafe across the street and nudges Neville meaningfully. “Since you spilled that guy’s coffee, we should go get some.”

“Uh-“ Neville startles out of his confusion. “Oh!” Then he nods, giving the two incredibly powerful and ancient beings supervising the two thirteen-year-old children doe eyes in an effort to convince them. 

It works. Aziraphale smiles -- he knows the ploy, Warlock used to be quite good at the same sort of convincing-face -- but God bless them, it’s too _effective._

“You’re only thirteen,” mutters Crowley, voice a bit of a wheeze after so much laughter, his hair in disarray. “Only thirteen, and you can make an Angel do anything. Anything at all. I spent centuries trying to convince you to be my _coworker,_ A’zira.”

Fifteen minutes, a bit of begging, three pastries, one mug of black coffee, and an egregious tip later, they’ve left the store. It’s all oddly domestic. Crowley orders the food with a detached, bored look, and drops 3x the price of it all in the tip jar. Aziraphale watches fondly, only surprised out of his musings when harry starts to laugh at him. Neville watches the three of them like he’s intruding -- until Harry tosses an arm around his shoulders and tugs him inward, whispering conspiratorially about weaseling another hot chocolate out of his godfathers. The walk back to the bookshop is much of the same. Harry nestles himself directly between his godparents and his friend, all of them wandering around and getting sidetracked by looking at pretty dogs or nice storefronts. 

“I don’t get hot chocolate.”

Aziraphale throws Crowley a warning look, just as Neville lets out an affronted noise. Hot chocolate, as evidenced by the brown smeared across his upper lips, had been proven as his favorite drink.

“What do you mean you don’t get it?” He asks, a little sour. “It’s just melted chocolate, milk, and sugar. What’s not there to get?”

Crowley waves his hands about and grapples for an explanation, mouth open as if he hadn’t expected anyone to ask him why. “I- I mean- ‘s just _chocolate!”_

“Just- chocolate, dear? _Just chocolate?”_

Realizing his mistake, the Demon straightens out, glaring at Neville as he snickers. “It’s just melted chocolate. Why not- why- well, why not just eat it normally?”

“It’s the principle of it, professor,” Neville answers dutifully. “It’s got extra sugar. It’s melted. It’s a drink. I’ve never seen you eat -- did you know there’s a rumor you’re a vampire among the Ravenclaws? They do a lot of theorizing. But- uh, anyways. I’ve never seen you eat, but you do drink. Wouldn’t you like hot chocolate more than normal chocolate?”

“Wh- A _vampire?”_ Crowley laughs, crossing his arms and challenging the idea, all mentions of hot chocolate forgotten.

“Yeah!” Harry replies enthusiastically. “I’ve got six galleons betting on you being a secret werewolf. Hermione put three down on Aziraphale being the werewolf. Said he was oddly nice.”

“Oh… Is that a… bad thing?” 

Harry takes one look at Aziraphale’s downtrodden demeanor and bursts into laughter. “No! She just said you ought to have some sort of hard spot.”

“I haven’t bet at all,” Neville says. “It feels mean… Especially since we got to see you had… Wings?”

“Wings? What wings?” Crowley glares. “I haven’t got any wings. In fact, me an’ Zira ‘r half muggle. Perfectly normal, here.”

“I wasn’t asking anything,” Neville hurries to explain, waving a hand, currently unoccupied by his half-empty mug of hot chocolate. “I don’t need to know! I was just curious, that’s all!”

Crowley, snorting, pats the back of the boy’s head. “I’m jussst messing with you. Just finish your weird… melty chocolate, ok?”

There’s a sudden change in the atmosphere. It whips through the air like an odd scent of sewage, feeling...

Sudden. 

Not that anyone but Crowley can really sense it. Aziraphale seems to have some inkling -- a draining of sunlight, a drop of the love in the air, a quieting of happiness. But, Crowley, as a Demon, can sniff out the exact opposite. For some reason, the closer they get to the bookshop, the more darkness hangs in the air. It’s tangible. Not quite anger, or hatred, or cruelty, and not quite demonic enough to present itself as a threat. Instead, it feels like resentment and the stink of fear. It’s the slick taste of sweat and the cherry-red bursting of irritation. 

This change, of all inconveniences and for some hell forsaken reason, has to be noticed, a moment later, by _Harry._

“It smells odd,” he says, wrinkling his nose in disgust. His glasses slide down at the movement -- he regards them with annoyance, before shoving them back up with a thumb. “Like… I dunno…”

“Like _rudeness,”_ Crowley mutters to himself. Harry, hearing the private admittance, snaps his fingers, nodding.

“Yeah! Yeah, like, it isn’t even a smell. It just feels odd?”

“You are becoming… scarily in tune with that.” Neville’s small look of awe is not missed by anyone. “What is it, do you think? Something dangerous?”

“No more dangerous than a scorned customer, I’m sure,” reassures Aziraphale gently. The look he shares with Crowley -- cautious, at the least -- denotes more worry than his voice. “Not much happens around here, dear.”

“The apocalypse happened around here. That's something.”

“The apocalypse happened in _Tadfield,”_ corrects Crowley distractedly, eyes narrowing at the quickly approaching bookshop. “We stopped it in Tadfield.”

Neville smiles nervously. “Er- the apocalypse was everywhere, Professor Crowley.”

“Ngk-” The Demon spins around and rips his glasses away, yellowed eyes narrowed into a sneering look. “I told you I’m not a bloody professor! Too incompetent for that, ‘m not sure why they hired either of us with our work record anyways.”

“Dumbledore probably thought you’d stir up chaos,” suggests Harry. He’s halfway through a laugh when his face goes screwed up with discomfort. “Oh- that feeling is even worse now.”

“You’re sure that pastry didn’t just disagree with you, dear?”

“Well, _I_ didn’t have one, Aziraphale, and you and Neville are just fine, aren’t you?” Crowley bites his lip, then grimaces, abandoning the group entirely and stalking forward on lanky, broken-looking steps. 

The bookstore itself looks completely normal. The moonlight of the evening still filters in through its windows, reflecting about and casting sharp contrasts against the sidewalk outside. The dustily burnished red of the sign outside has the same ancient, withered quality as it has since a few months after Aziraphale bought the place. The only noticeable difference, in fact, is the small group of people gathered at their front door and banging, quite aggressively, at the entrance.

“Hey!” Shouts Crowley, the first to see them, snapping his fingers angrily to get their attention, one hand on his hips and the other busy admonishing them. 

The woman at the front -- a pudgy, bloated looking person, with watery blue eyes and flat, brown hair, stringing down her face like a wilted salad -- turns to him on what appears to be her sixteenth knock. She’s dressed in a pale brown skirt and button-up, a well-worn suit jacket tossed over her shoulders. She has the look of someone angry on another person’s behalf. Those persons happen to be standing right behind her, too, conveniently nearby, shuddering, flinching away when the rest of the group catches up with the Demon.

For a moment, Crowley’s transported into that promise he made two years ago. He sees fighting, and protection, and a battered, malnourished kid, so eager to please the first two allies he’d had in a very long time. His vision goes red as he moves to meet the eyes of the Dursleys.

 _“You,”_ Crowley hisses, thanking his past self for deciding to leave his sunglasses off. His long legs carry him closer, shoes tapping against the concrete in an angry staccato rhythm. The group -- save for the woman in the front -- jerks away from him frightfully. “You _dare_ come back here, you presumptuous little _freaks-”_

“I dare say,” chortles the woman, shielding the rest of what can be assumed to be her family behind her. They look, quite hilariously, terrified. They’re wearing shorts and skirts and soft little T-shirts that might’ve looked quaint if the group of people that were wearing them weren’t the worst sort of people, and they’re all utterly drenched in fear-sweat. 

“You have a lot of _nerve_ calling _me_ a freak like that!” She scans Crowley’s form -- with his fully black attire, leather pants and all, and the red tie slung about his neck -- and laughs again, body trembling, gelatinous. “You’re that sneaky little nitwit, aren’t you! Vernon, you couldn’t deal with him yourself?”

Regrettably, Crowley doesn’t catch the moment Aziraphale and the others catch up. In hindsight -- _if he could’ve_ \-- he would’ve sent them away. He would’ve dealt with the situation himself. The harsh, startled breath that’s torn from Harry is the first notice of their arrival, as the woman before them turns to look at the Dursley’s. When Crowley looks back at his own group, he sees a mixture of emotions. Neville’s confusion, Aziraphale’s shock, and worst of all, Harry’s fear.

Fear, that is apparently written over by anger.

Harry takes a step forward before Aziraphale can move to shield him. He grimaces, face tense, but eyes as determined as ever. The other group looks at him with disdain, as he squints through his glasses, looking at the beige woman before him.

“M- Marge?”

“Ah!” She whips back around to face him, lips pursed in dissatisfaction.“It’s you-” She glances at the Dursleys, awaiting confirmation “-that’s him, isn’t it? Dudleykins? The ungrateful little creep?”

There’s no response from the older boy. He seems, wisely, to have learned to keep his mouth shut. Even past being petrified with fear, the look Aziraphale sends him is enough for the boy to know that answering would not guarantee any safety at all. His feet shuffle further backward, away from his family, back leaning up against the wall of the bookshop behind him. 

“Anyways,” drawls _Marge._ “I’m here to come and collect my family’s goods. That boy was rightfully placed with my brother, and you are to _return him.”_ She takes a step forward. Harry falters back. Aziraphale moves to steady him, but he seems determined to argue without support. Looking back at the other Dursleys, though, it seems they’d rather leave than have the boy back.

 _“That boy…”_ Harry’s hands twitch to his pockets, where the top end of his wand can be seen standing. _“-_ Can speak for himself.” Marge’s towering stature contrasts his height greatly, and it’s clear that she takes offense with his refusal to comply. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

“And- and what do you call them, then?” Petunia bursts suddenly, standing in the background, her neck craning and voice high pitched with a mixture of fear and absolute hatred. She gestures toward Aziraphale, Crowley, and Neville distastefully. “These- these creeps! At least we can be called _blood,_ Potter!”

“Oh- feeling _nostalgic?”_ Aziraphale sneers, voice thin as ice. “Harry is not your _sister_ , Petunia.”

This has her flinching, now. She shrinks back into the meaty grip of her husband, biting her lip, jaw twitching in a way that practically illustrates the resentment of her past. It’s a satisfying expression coming from her, and it seems to give Harry some ounce of extra confidence. 

And Aziraphale _knows_ how Lily and Petunia existed. He understands the jealousy, the anger, the sadness. The betrayal of being inferior. That doesn’t mean he in any way has pity for the woman. The world, as demonstrated by himself and by so many others, is created with choices. Petunia’s choice to be spiteful, and cruel, and unkind to anyone but those she favors, defines the type of person she chooses to be.

“Don’t speak to her like that, you oaf,” snorts Marge, just as her brother lets out a garbled shriek of indignance at his wife’s treatment.

“Don’t call him an _oaf,”_ Crowley sneers right back. “And anyway,” he continues, looking quite pleased with himself, “If anyone _isss_ an oaf, it’s your _great_ beefy _cow_ of a brother.”

Scoffing, Marge waves a hand flippantly in their group’s direction, starting to look like a bird’s broken wing as she swings herself round. “You’ve got a lot of nerve! Looking like a skinny little twig yourself -- I bet I could snap you in half!”

Aziraphale, now, is the one angry on his partner’s behalf. He steps forward, glaring heavily. “Don’t even try it-”

“Excuse me?”

The voice comes from below. Everyone looks at it with expressions of mild surprise, as the origin -- the small, nervous-looking boy of thirteen, named Neville Longbottom -- has yet to address any of them at all. He’d been too focused on staying steady with Harry, pressing a grounding hand to his shoulder. Harry looks like he’s focusing on trying not to vomit, wand-hand shaking, his entire body trembling in a mixture of poignant rage and old, instinctive fear.

“But erm…” Neville, suddenly flustered at the attention, blushes. “Who _are_ you people?”

This prompts several answers from either side of the group. Some come with quite a bit more curses than the others. Still, there are only ears for Harry’s answer on either side. It isn’t likely that the Dursley’s feel anything other than a sense of ownership toward the boy, but they stake their claim, in the way that they lean in eagerly, awaiting an answer, a pledge of allegiance, something of blood and thicker. Something in the air smelling of ozone whips about, and a streetlight across from them winks out, shrouding the silent area in heavy, oppressive darkness.

“They’re no one,” he replies, leaning casually into the stormy wind that sweeps through the air as if it’s a simple matter of denouncement. “Nobody at all.”

The stench of brimstone grows stronger. It’s theatric, the way the air shifts, as if heat rising through a building’s current. The way that Harry’s hair rises, the unruly mess of black shifting under the weight of intense magic, his dark skin lit up with an eerie glow that seems to come from nowhere. Excess reserves of strength have never been uncommon from Harry. Not when he was kept by the Dursleys, and not now. 

And, so, when Marge starts to let out tiny, whistling breaths, no one but she is surprised.

“Wh-” 

She chokes on the word (along with her own throat.) At first, it looks as if she’s begun to swell with indignant anger, making herself larger, more imposing, threatening the thirteen-year-old boy below her. Her face goes red. Her eyes grow beadier. Then, as a button goes flying off of her blouse, it becomes clear that she is inflating more like a _balloon._ Her eyes bulge, her great, bulbous red face stretching like rubber. All at once, the fear on the Dursley’s faces warps, turning to horror so great you can practically smell it.

 _“Marge!”_ Screams Vernon and Petunia at once, their son, between them, starting to giggle in hysterical fear. 

Neville and Harry back up in surprise -- glancing between themselves as if to ask _was that you? --_ as the woman starts to float, her legs snapping out of their stockings and the pale tan of her shoes cracking with the effort to contain her mass. Vernon grabs her leg just as Harry starts to laugh in incredulity, yanking at her as she screams garbled words between two flaps of skin that might’ve once been lips. The spell-caster in question seems to be having trouble with his morality, trying to decide whether he should find the whole experience repulsive, or hilarious, or both.

“You fix her!” Vernon roars desperately, glancing back to Crowley and Aziraphale while very quickly losing grip on his sister’s massive leg. “You make her right!”

It’s the first thing he’s said to them that night. His voice is even less effective than it was the one other time they’d spoken to him. 

“Er-” Crowley shrugs. Without his glasses, he looks utterly amazed. “I- er- I don’t see anything wrong?”

“What- what do you-” Vernon cuts off, screaming as his grip fails, Marge’s garish voice letting out a sound that might’ve matched, had her vocal cords not been 3x too big. She starts to float up above, her family shouting, but no longer frantically scrabbling for her limbs. “Bring her back! You bring her back!”

The sunset glows against her as she drifts. The rooftops greet her back as she bounces against them, hitting flagpoles, shrieking higher and higher as she flies in the same direction as her pitch. Aziraphale and Crowley had warded off any passerbyes from seeing the fight from the moment it started, and they begin to revel in the view as she floats, blissfully uncaring of anyone who might be around to see it. 

Then, after a moment of warring with an Angel’s moral compass and a Demon at his shoulder, Aziraphale snaps. “Fine!” he shouts, abrupt, annoyed enough with all the screaming that he concedes. He snaps, and for a split second, Marge free falls from the sky, her now-normal voice low and shrill at once, her family equally as distressed. Then, with a disgruntled sigh, he snaps again, and the entire group has disappeared in a poof of pink light.

“Where- _Aziraphale!”_ Crowley beams, rounding on his partner with an expression more befitting of someone at a wedding than someone who had just watched their godchild inflate his former aunt. Then, planting a kiss on the Angel’s cheek, he asks: “You _scoundrel!_ Where’d you toss’em?”

“I-” 

Aziraphale pauses, looking around himself. His expression switches from elation to horror, throwing itself so quickly through the five stages of grief that God Herself gets whiplash from the Heavens. He turns, planting his hands firmly on Crowley’s shoulders. For a moment, the whole street holds its breath, Crowley’s wide, confused eyes piercing that of the Angel’s as they stand there. 

“Crowley, where are the _children?”_

\---

“Harry- Harry! Calm down- Hey! _Harry!”_

_“What?”_

Harry’s voice comes as a growl, as he whirls around to meet Neville head-on. His eyes are wild, his feet frantic in their dance against the pavement, wand held out and waving about to combat invisible enemies, people long ahead and far below. He looks, most of all, as if he’s uncertain of what it is he’s afraid of. 

“What, Neville? What is it?”

“I-” the other boy flinches, eyes darting to the ground and back. 

They’re stranded in the middle of a random muggle street. There’s nothing around but the beginnings of a suburb, all gently waving trees and a park not far away. The darkness has fully engulfed the sky now, not a speck of sunlight to be seen. There, in the summer heat, in the dead of night, Harry and Neville pant, hands on their knees and wands as they wait out exhaustion.

“Harry… Why are we running?”

“Because-” Harry cuts off, grappling for an answer. His anger at his inability to find one seems to grow by the minute until sparks start to trail from the tip of his wand, furious eyes stuck to the pavement. “Because I have to, Neville! I just- I just blew up my aunt!”

Neville hiccups in a cautious breath, hands settling at his side, placating in nature. “I thought you said she was no one?”

“Well- she is _now!_ But- But I don’t think Crowley an’ Aziraphale are going to want me inflating her, nobody or not!”

“Harry, they love you! That can’t really be why you’re running. You know they love you.” Neville takes a step forward and sets a gentle hand to his friend’s arm, guiding his defensive stance back into a more relaxed one. They’re both halfway into an outright panic, sweating from the exertion of the run. When Harry doesn’t fight Neville’s touch, he pulls the boy to the curb and sits with him, putting an arm around his shoulders as he starts to shiver despite the warmth. “That was… your blood family, wasn’t it?”

Harry sucks in a sharp breath, then lets out an even harsher chuckle in return. “Yeah. Yeah- that was them.” He shakes his head, a hand diving through his hair as he tries to regain his sanity. “M sorry, Neville. It just freaks me out. Well- I mean. You saw. A picture of my brilliance.” 

“Hey, don’t be sorry. My gran coming up to my room freaks me out all the time, it’s not weird.”

Harry fixes him with a scrutinizing look. “That isn’t as heartening as you think it is, Neville.”

“Yeah, well.” Another wry chuckle, and Neville looks up. The sky is a bright one, oddly unclouded for the sort of weather that usually occupies it. He lets out a soft hum, and then turns back to Harry. “You’re like… They love you. And… You got scared. And blew up your aunt. That isn’t the worst thing a wizard’s done when they’re mad.”

Letting out a little snort, Harry shrugs Neville’s arm off his back and turns, facing him, breath slowing as he calms down. He seems a bit embarrassed in himself now, but indulges in the conversation nonetheless. “Oh yeah? I bet you’d know.”

Their discussion is interrupted by a more palpable change in the atmosphere than ever before. There’s the same type of tensing of air as earlier — yet sharper, filled more with magic than malice, as clouds gather and the wind begins to shiver past them. Harry immediately reaches for his wand, discarded in his lap, eyes darting over toward the bush across from them, rustling in a strangely cold air.

“Come out,” Harry demands, in a sudden burst of confidence. If anything, his time with Crowley and Aziraphale has made him more confident by far. “Show yourself.”

The wind quickens. The leaves twist and swirl in a mesmerizing pattern, disrupted by a gap between hot and cold, just to the left of the bushes before them. The chill grows even wetter, the freeze settling in as an animalistic, low noise comes from only a few feet away.

Then, out from the leaves, appears a dog.

It’s incredibly unremarkable. Black and shaggy and dirty, covered in sand, dust, and what looks like blood. Its eyes are sunken and exhausted, its tongue lolling out lazily as it pants. It reveals makes the air tuck itself neatly back into it’s warm, dry self, the wind calming as Harry blinks, putting his wand away, frowning in confusion as the world starts to right itself.

“It’s just a… dog?” Neville walks forward, holding a hand out for the animal to sniff. It ignores him completely, its tail coming up in a bedraggled wave as it walks right over to Harry instead. 

“It’s hurt,” murmurs the boy, noticing a smattering of blood running along a jagged cut on its side. He lets it nudge at his hand for a moment before he runs it over its shaggy black head distractedly. “Neville-”

“Yeah, now you wanna go back to your godparents.” Neville cracks a grin, before nodding, gesturing for Harry and the dog to follow his lead. “I’m rubbish with spells, otherwise I’d try to help!”

“You’re not rubbish with spells,” Harry corrects, though he’s more absorbed with coaxing the dog along than he is with admonishing his friend’s self-deprecating nature. It seems completely obedient already, trotting alongside him, limping, but determined to follow, as if Harry’s been his master for years, and not only a recent acquaintance. “It’s that wand you’ve got. You an’ Ron’ve got the same issue.”

Neville sighs in melancholy. “I know, but my gran would have my head if I tried to get a new wand. I’ll just be _bad_ for now.”

“Stop that.” Harry feels around the dog’s neck for a leash, and, in finding none, nods. “Ok. So, I don’t think it belongs to anyone. Do you know anything about dogs?”

Neville, jumping up onto a concrete barrier and balancing there as he walks, shakes his head. “No, sorry. I’ve only got Trevor! Dogs are pretty uncommon at Hogwarts, so I’ve never bothered learning about them.”

“That’s alright. I reckon A’Zira’s gotta have a book about them somewhere.”

Neville frowns. “Say- Harry, do you even know where we’re going?”

Harry snorts. “Of course I do. Crowley made sure I was familiar with the area when they first let me move in. I know it like I know my wand.”

After fifteen more minutes -- and Harry almost retracting that statement as -- the bookshop looms into view. The street is empty now, devoid of anyone from Harry’s past and of pedestrians as well. The closer to the bookshop they get, though, the more a slick sense of dread in Harry’s gut arises. He looks at the dog, and his wand, and his hands, and wonders. He’s caused so much trouble, and now he’s asking to bring something else into his godparent’s life as well. They’d both already gone through so much. The idea of adding more to that pile -- whether by blowing up his aunt, or finding odd strays on streetsides, or running away from home -- is a worrying one. 

He’s broken from his thoughts by the interruption of a shadow in the doorway of the building before them. The person, all thin angles and dramatic flair, slinks forward. What really draws him out is the bark of the dog. It snarls, hackles raised, as red hair and leather pants saunters vaguely into view, Crowley looking just as startled by it as the mutt is of him as he curls inward with surprise.

“Wh- Go _shopping_ , did we?” He mutters, regarding the dog with distaste, before turning to Harry. He leans over -- bracing his hands against Harry’s shoulders -- and lets out a heavy sigh, filled with relief, worry, and a mixture of thousands of conflicting thoughts. His eyes are freed of their glasses, shining with obvious nerves. Then, dipping his head down to the ground, shoulders lurching upward, he says: 

“What in the _Nine Circles_ were you thinking, Harry!”

“I- I didn’t-”

“You scared us, Harry.” Noticing the boy’s look of fear, Crowley sighs, squeezing his shoulders once before standing to his full height. “You’re not in trouble. You just bloody _ssscared_ us. That woman has been taken care of, anywaysss. A’Zira an’ I didn’t know where either of you went.”

Harry hangs his head, a blizzard of guilt whirling across his chest. Crowley, seemingly satisfied with the brief reprimand, shakes his head and regards the other human party of the group.

“And you. Longbottom. Are you alright?”

“I’m- I’m fine, really,” he stammers. Then, growing determined: “And Harry didn’t mean it! He was super worried-”

“Oh, bloody _hell._ I’m not blaming you. Not either of you. No one’s mad at you, Harry. I _like_ mischief. Watching your stupid aunt blow off into the ssssky was a highlight of the night. That an’ watching Aziraphale spill that stupid bloody coffee on that asshole.” Crowley lets out another sigh -- a common noise that night, it seems -- and gestures to the dog. “I am a little confused at… erm. That.”

Harry, trying to find some grasp on his confidence, shrugs. “It’s a dog.”

Crowley glares at his godson. “You’re worse than Adam. Yes, I can see that Harry. What’sss his story?”

“It got all… creepy? Around?” Harry snorts at his own explanation. “And then it just… came out of the bushes.”

“It came out of the bushes,” deadpans Crowley, dry and unamused. “Just… got some wind blowing, and then it- what, ran at you?”

“It was actually rather polite,” Neville quips, smiling. “It just… came up and sniffed Harry’s hand. It wouldn’t sniff mine, though.”

Suddenly, the door to the bookshop goes flying open, a burst of white hair and tartan dashing out and looping his arms around Harry in a hug. The boy currently being embraced lets out a little shriek of surprise, before he’s hugging Aziraphale back, guilt returning along with a soft, fond smile. A moment later the Angel shifts, letting Harry go and frowning as severely as he can.

(Which, honestly, when directed at Harry, is not very severe at all.)

“You _scared us!”_ He blurts, patting Harry down for bruises or wounds. He bites his lip, leaning back to regard them both. “Both of you ought to know better than to run off like that!” 

Then, his eyes catch the dog. He blinks.

There’s a name on the tip of his tongue. Oddly enough, but the _mutt,_ of all things, gives the Angel pause. He stands once again, regarding the dog with the expression of someone trying to read a faded, dusty title on the spine of a book. It looks to be just as confused, falling back on its haunches with an expression that manages to be stunned. Or, whatever that might be for a dog. Then, as if nothing at all had happened, the two break eye contact.

The Angel shakes his head and smiles. 

“What’s his name?”

Harry cards a hand through its fur, and grins. 

“Dog.”

It seems satisfied enough with the name, even if Aziraphale and Neville's baffled expressions are any indicators of their opinions of the title. Crowley, of course, only laughs.


	2. The Dementor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I'M BACK
> 
> My life is a nightmare rn! So sorry for being so late haha. I wanted to put out a Christmas episode but kind of... forgot what days were. And then it was not Christmas anymore. So, if this happens to be a little weirdly edited, please call me out on it!
> 
> Anyways. Guess what. I've actually got a tumble now! If you wanna talk to me, send me things (I LOVE when people make content for my stories, no matter what it is, holy cow y'all) Check me out at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/soupsword (Soupsword, since swordsoup was taken.)
> 
> Enjoy!

Harry, “The Dog,” Crowley, Aziraphale, and Neville, by some happy miracle, make it to Diagon Alley without blowing someone else into the sky. 

Neville, rather perturbed by Crowley’s manic driving “skills,” is a stark contrast to The Dog. The mutt hangs his head out the window and barks into the wind, tangled coat run through with fingers of air. Crowley, who had once said that he would never let a single animal into his Bentley, has now allowed two owls, a toad, and a dirty, messy looking dog sully her leather. Not that the car itself minds much -- she’s used to all matters of odd things.

“Now,” Aziraphale says with a cautious voice, clearly hoping to make sure Harry and Neville don’t make  _ all  _ of the trouble if they’re let off on their own. Harry runs a hand through The Dog’s fur, hoping that his efforts to make it less bedraggled and more presentable as a whole won’t go unnoticed. The mutt’s wounds have been healed, its fur cleaned, but all attempts to make him look gentle have been terrible failures. “I want you two to be  _ very safe.  _ No poking about in Knockturn alley or… Oh, making odd deals with creepy strangers.”

Crowley nods. “Or creepy people you know, too. Ngk- Neville, you’ve got the better moral compass, Harry, listen to him.” The Demon waves a finicky hand at the expression Harry gives him. “I’ve seen you fight a wizard serial killer. Twice. Don’t pretend you know what you’re  _ doing.” _

Harry rolls his eyes and turns, already whistling for The Dog to follow. Neville holds Trevor in his own hands, laughing a little when Harry’s significantly larger pet nearly sends him toppling into a storefront. After that, Harry keeps a soft hand on his pet’s back, keeping him from careening about and sending any other small children about. 

They wander Diagon Alley together, chewing on candy -- the first thing they’d bought after withdrawing their money, naturally. They’d exercised enough self-control to get their supplies, of course, but it’s hard to resist the idea of a banana-strawberry milkshake, especially when hot summer sun shines.

This self-control is practically obliterated with the appearance of a new Firebolt. Neville has no interest in quidditch -- but Harry, with seeker’s blood and a penchant for feats of daring, is immediately drawn to the crowd surrounding Quality Quidditch supplies. Neville obliges him, tucking Trevor into one of his bags and chasing after Harry and The Dog. The crowd is a large one, amassed before a large, newly erected platform, atop which sits the most beautiful, polished broomstick that either of them has seen in their lives.

“It just came out,” announces a square-jawed wizard conspiratorially to his friend, looking as if he’d rather like to steal the thing. “A prototype, a real good one too-”

“It’s the fastest in the world, right dad?” Shrieks a giggly boy, swinging from his father’s arm as the two look up to the broom. 

“The Firebolt!” Says a green-haired witch in awe, clutching a cauldron of books to her chest. She squeezes closer into the crowd, leaning down to read a plaque. With a bit of wiggling, Harry’s able to reach the gold-gilded lettering as well, The Dog barking happily at his side.

_ “THIS STATE-OF-THE-ART RACING BROOM SPORTS A STREAM-LINED, SUPERFINE HANDLE OF ASH, TREATED WITH A DIAMOND-HARD POLISH AND HAND-NUMBERED WITH ITS OWN REGISTRATION NUMBER. EACH INDIVIDUALLY SELECTED BIRCH TWIG IN THE BROOMTAIL HAS BEEN HONED TO AERODYNAMIC PERFECTION, GIVING THE FIREBOLT UNSURPASSABLE BALANCE AND PINPOINT PRECISION. THE FIREBOLT HAS AN ACCELERATION OF 150 MILES AN HOUR IN TEN SECONDS AND INCORPORATES AN UNBREAKABLE BRAKING CHARM. PRICE ON REQUEST.” _

“I have no idea what any of that means,” Neville says breathlessly, “But it sounds bloody impressive.”

“Impressive?  _ Impressive?”  _ Harry scoffs, rapping a knuckle against the plate. “Neville, this is brilliant! It’s wicked! I wonder how much it is… Oh, Aziraphale’d kill me for greed, wouldn’t he…”

“I mean, you’ve never lost a match with the one you’ve got now, right?”

Harry’s about to respond, when, all of a sudden, Trevor goes flying out of Neville’s pocket. The boy shrieks, the toad croaks, The Dog starts barking louder than anyone, and the broom (with its extravagant cost) is forgotten.

After catching the wayward pet, the two of them set off for other stores. They need new robes from Madam Malkin’s, new potion supplies from the apothecary, and miles worth of parchment each. They walk about and admire the all-too-expensive wares in many a shopfront, sharing candy, greeting fellow classmates, and occasionally avoiding an awkward face. 

By the time they enter Flourish and Blotts -- a rather boring installment in their trip, as its stock pales in comparison to Aziraphale’s -- the sun has started to dip below the horizon, a cool, summer night’s wind starting to creep through, along with the beginnings of an autumn chill. The aggressive books inside don’t make for much fun, and the two boys quickly excuse themselves from the premise, marveling at the ridiculous, gnashing pages they struggle to handle in their hands.

They’re barely halfway across the street from the place, The Dog begrudgingly letting Trevor sit on his head when someone shouts at them.

“Harry!” Calls a familiar, breathless voice. “Neville!”

The two of them turn to face the origin-- quickly excited, Neville dropping his  _ Book Of Spells -- Grade Three  _ with a groan and a curse -- finding Hermione and Ron, the two of them dashing over, the latter just getting gangly enough that he nearly trips over his own feet. 

“Finally!” Hermione puffs out a heavy breath of air, chest heaving, but a grin plants firmly in place. She looks good -- skin darkened with a tan, wearing a thin metal retainer that glints neatly in the afternoon light. “We saw your Godfathers, but they didn’t know where you were- we were looking for ages!”

“Me n’ Neville’v been off shopping,” Harry explains, gesturing to the boy, now recovering from his surprise and waving at the two awkwardly.

“You and Neville --” Ron scoffs, eyeing the two pets by their sides. “Bloody hell, Harry, you’ve got more than just  _ Neville!”  _ Now, he advances on The Dog. The Dog, not taking kindly to the surprise, growls. Unfettered, Ron slides a hand down its snout. This is deemed acceptable by The Dog, who gives the boy a look suspiciously like an eye. “When’d you get a dog?”

Neville, who has been bringing up the story to everyone around them who asks how their summer was -- poor Angelina, she’d been stuck for ten minutes -- immediately launches into an explanation.“He came up to us after Harry blew up his aunt! You shoulda seen it- he was brilliant-”

_ “Harry,”  _ Hermione chastises, suddenly sounding quite cross with him. She leans backward -- specifically, away from the dog -- and frowns. “You blew up your aunt? You could’ve been  _ expelled!” _

“I mean… it’s still pretty damn cool, isn’t it.” Harry tucks his bags under his arm and holds the other out, The Dog trotting away from Ron to prod at his hand. Ron, who looks quite put out at being ignored, seems more inclined to side with Hermione now that he can’t pet The Dog. “I didn’t even do it on purpose!”

“It blew out a streetlight, it did. And the entire street got all cold. I’m the opposite- my grandma always told me I hid my magic instead of having accidental displays of it.”

Hermione, who, as the rest of Neville’s friends have, has formed very intense opinions of the boy’s relations, rolls her eyes. “That’s still a sign of power, Neville. Sometimes people’s bodies just shut down their magic in defense- and anyways, Harry shouldn’t be blowing people up either way!”

“Yeah, but  _ Hermione _ , you thought that expulsion was worse than getting your head mauled off by a magic three-headed pit bull in our first year,” Ron reminds her casually. “I don’t think you should be telling Harry off at all.”

Hermione sends him a wicked glare, and the group starts off. Familiarity draws forth stories, Ron taking up half of the talking-time discussing Egyptian tombs and curses. Harry, remembering a story he’d heard about natural inferi coming from those sorts of places, finds it in his heart not to interrupt. Hermione seems to be thinking much in the same way, as she jumps into a description of her own summer as quickly as she can. Turns out, she’d done basically nothing but study. 

Still, she’s grinning, and Harry supposes that must be the sort of thing she enjoys anyway. And- that segues into Harry being able to ask her:

“Why  _ do  _ you have so many books, anyway, Hermione?”

She looks down at her bag -- bulging, and constantly being adjusted, as the edges of the books stab at her sides. “Well, I’m taking quite a few more subjects, aren’t I? Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, The Study of Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies-”

“What?” Ron looks over at Harry and rolls his eyes, horrified. “What’re you taking muggle studies for? Hermione, you’re-”

‘Muggle-born, yes,” she responds composedly. “I am aware,  _ Ronald.  _ It’ll be interesting to learn from a wizard’s point of view, that’s all!”

“Wait- that’s like, fifteen classes.” Neville, doing the math, drops his jaw and swerves to look at her. “Hermione, are you even going to  _ sleep  _ this year? Like, at all?”

She ignores him (and Harry and Ron, laughing loudly) pointedly, rummaging about in her purse. “Anyways, I’ve still got ten galleons left. It's my birthday in September, and Mum and Dad gave me some money to get myself an early birthday present."

“How about a nice book?” Ron asks, still digging. Again, she ignores them, setting off in the direction of a new cluster of stores. 

The sign, displayed up above a cheery-looking storefront, first years and adults alike going in and out, reads  _ Magical Menagerie.  _ Harry looks up at it and grins. He’d gotten Hedwig there, even if Hagrid was the one to make a purchase. The place, for as noisy and raucous as it is, holds weight. 

He steps inside with an eye on The Dog, making sure that he doesn’t run off to eat anything. He’s been well behaved since Harry’d found him, but knowing his track record with animals -- there was no telling how he’d end up. The store itself is insanely crowded, anyway, and he doesn’t want anyone getting lost.

All animals of all types sit around the room, displayed in cages, glass, tanks, and magical enclosures. Cats of all colors eye rats, dancing about, some with patterns or odd markings to their hair. A huge, clearly enchanted cage of Ravens screeches, screaming over a bright blue pendant someone had thrown inside. There’s a rabbit, a little boy chasing after it nervously, that keeps popping out of people’s hats, all over the store. Trevor croaks at a nearby tank of toads, singing to the tune of the funeral march. The Dog, panting loudly, barks friendlily at a poodle in the corner of the room, bright orange and huffing in irritation at the noise around itself.

“Maybe you should replace him,” Harry notes, half-serious, as Ron pulls Scabbers out of his pocket. His fur has begun to fall out. The Dog perks up at the rat’s underwhelming entrance but looks away after a quick cursory glance deems the animal uninteresting. Ron, for all of his despair, just glares.

Unfortunately, something else in the room doesn’t get the message. Ron screams shrilly as a bright orange burst of fur tackles him, an  _ enormous  _ cat sending him sprawling to the ground in pursuit of the rat. 

_ “NO! Crookshanks, no!”  _ shouts an exhausted shopkeep, darting up from her place at a cage of spinning worm-snakes. She chases after the cat as hissing joins the noise of Ron’s screams, the squashed looking animal clawing at him as he holds Scabbers tight to his chest. “Oh-  _ Odin-  _ I’m so sorry, sir.”

He screams one last time as the cat is lifted off his chest, the rest of the shop’s din and clatter nearly paling in comparison to Ron’s noise. The shopkeep -- whose badge reads  _ Calliope Burns --  _ curses at the cat, nearly tossing it back into the proper glass encasing it’d been kept behind.

“Are you alright?” She fusses, nearly smacking Ron to pull him up as long, black hair drapes itself across her face. Hermione, behind her, has begun to eye the cat in a way that makes Harry very nervous. Neville looks to be completely unaware of the chaos, holding Trevor out and pointing at the other toads as if a proud father in a daycare.

“No, I’m not  _ alright!”  _ huffs Ron, pale in the face yet blotchy red as well. “What the hell was that thing?”

“A small tiger,” Harry deadpans. The boy shoots him a look fiercer than what Harry remembered of Tom Riddle’s. “Or a very big cat.”

Burns sighs in exhaustion. Now that she isn’t wrangling the small-tiger from earlier, Harry can better see her -- the pale of her skin, the deep, burgundy brown of her eyes. She’s tall and muscular in a way both pretty and handsome, looking a bit older than he thinks she is. She looks to be one of the only people running the store, but Ron, still feeling slighted, does not calm in the slightest. “He’s half-kneazle. Been here for  _ ages.” _

“I wonder why?”

“He knocked the toupe off a man once and I had to pay for it out of  _ pocket.”  _ Seeming to remember that she runs a store, Burns straightens and clears her face of its despairing look. “Oh- sorry! I’m Calliope. You’re Harry, right?” In seeing his embarrassed expression, she shakes her head hastily and grins. “Oh- no- sorry! I only meant to say that I go to Hogwarts. I’m a fifth year. I know your brothers, Weasley.”

“Yeah, who doesn’t,” Ron grumbles, though a bit less sour now. “You’re on the Ravenclaw quidditch team, aren’t you?”

She nods. “It’s the only reason they hired me so young here. This is my summer job. I’m a beater, so I know how to take a… beating.” Pointing at Scabbers, she smiles. “Looks like he does too. You need any help with him? I’m legally obligated to offer you free veterinary servicing since you’ve been attacked.”

Ron, accepting, thought still scowling, is led off toward the counter, shielding his rat from everything else around him. Harry’s left to go locate his pet supplies for the year. He doesn’t bother with Neville -- it’s adorable enough watching him give each frog in the store a name. Oddly enough though, Hermione has vanished. With a sick sense of dread, he realizes the cat has too.

His suspicions are confirmed, when, five minutes later, Hermione shows up with the squashed-looking thing in her arms. She’s cooing loudly, stroking her knuckles across the top of its matted fur. Somehow it manages to look both angry and adoring at once, its face smashed and mishappen, and Harry has to resist the urge to laugh. The urge is all but abandoned when Ron returns at the same time, starting to pale again at the sight of the cat. 

“Hermione,” he says, swallowing. “What is that?”

“This,” she responds, good-natured as ever, “is Crookshanks. He’s a beauty, isn’t he?”

“Hermione, it nearly  _ scalped me!” _

“He didn’t mean to,  _ did  _ he,” she coos, glowing. Her hand drags across its fur again. It looks up at her and meows innocently. 

Harry, accustomed to ugly, dangerous people, thinks he doesn’t seem  _ too  _ terrible.

“And- and, what about Scabbers!” Ron points to the vibrating lump in his coat pocket. It doesn’t have much effect on her, as it’s begun to make him look a bit ridiculous. “He needs  _ rest!  _ How’s he gonna do that with-“

“Ron, you dropped your rat tonic.”

Momentarily interrupted, the redhead looks up and regards Harry with an expression that still seems to be deciding whether it should be thankful or annoyed. He snatches it, turning back to Hermione, only to find her and Neville chatting amicably as they walk right out the door.

The Leaky Cauldron, once the group enters, is already packed.

In the corner, Harry can see the entire Weasley clan -- minus Percy, who seems to be having an enraptured discussion with Penelope Clearwater, a Ravenclaw, blond and pretty and blushing quite heavily -- posted in one corner, the rest of the room giving them a wide berth. Crowley and Aziraphale have already joined their group, sitting beside them, the two of them having a hushed discussion with Arthur Weasley.

“Harry! Neville!” Says the man, noticing the two over and waving them over. “How are you two?”

“I’m doing alright!” Neville says brightly. Harry nods in agreement. “What’re you all talking about?” He asks, at the same time that Ron notices the headline of the newspaper they’d been looking at.  _ THE NOTORIOUS BLACK  _ stretches across the parchment.

“They still haven’t caught him,” Ron says glumly. “You reckon we could get an award if we did?”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re thirteen.” Crowley pokes a finger at the boy’s lapel. Arthur nods, agreeing readily. “If any of your four go off and try to mess with this-“

“Stop it, Crowley,” Aziraphale demands. “I knew Black, and he-“

“He-“ Arthur cuts off and lowers his voice. The three of them seem to have forgotten their crowd, leaning in to continue their line of discussion unhindered. “He  _ murdered  _ someone, Zira! You can’t just-“

“I can, and I will. Now.” Looking back at the children, he smiles. It’s clear that the discussion has just ended, and Arthur leans back, face twisted into a scowl. “Who’s this, Hermione? He’s a lovely shade!”

Hermione skips into an explanation with all the excitement of a toddler. Harry, looking away, notices that The Dog at his side has begun to tense.

—-

The trip to King’s Cross is uneventful. He can’t complain, as they load Neville’s and Harry’s things into trunks, packing Trevor into a magically-expanded carry-enclosure, making sure that Harry has the proper papers for The Dog. 

They meet the Weasley’s right outside of the platform. Ron loos as if he slept in his day clothes. Hermione, beside him, is as proper looking as ever. Other than her hair -- she hasn’t had the time to put it up, clearly, and it hangs about her cheeks softly. It’s a pretty kind of messy, but she tugs at it self consciously, dark cheeks bruising red when Aziraphale compliments it.

“Right then. Let’s do this in pairs,” says Mr. Weasley. He threads his arm through Ginny’s, taking a step closer to the group. “No one is in danger, but I think it best to be cautious, given the circumstances…”

The circumstances. Right. The ones that managed to make Aziraphale and Mr. Weasley angry, and Mrs. Weasley ready to pull her wand and fight. Crowley seems rather unaffected, but seeing as his usual state is “hiding his emotions,” Harry supposes it checks out.

“Alright, Neville’s with me,” Crowley says, tossing a hand out for the boy to take. “Harry, Aziraphale.”

Mr. Weasley, clearly remembering something important he’d forgotten, curses. “Wait- wait- I need to talk to you three for a moment.” 

All in a rush, Harry finds himself nearly alone. Despite the usual hubbub of the 9-and-three-quarters train yard, there’s close to nobody around, students finding their way to the train and parents waving their tearful goodbyes. Mr. Weasley releases Ginny to her mother and ushers Crowley, Aziraphale, Harry, and The Dog into an empty alcove.

“This is good,” he whispers. Everyone manages to look vaguely in-place. Aziraphale, unfortunately, remains an outlier. He, as he always does when he sneaks about or does something like hiding Crowley’s glasses, has a shifty look to him, eyeing the land and shuffling about. Crowley maneuvers in front of him, giving out a snort when Aziraphale lets out a surprised noise at the movement.

“Ok. This is about Black, isn’t it?” Harry asks, narrowing his eyes. His suspicions are confirmed when Mr. Weasley nods, his eyes going flinty -- cloudy and dark.

“Mr. Fell has… defended his innocence. And that’s noble- but he is a  _ convicted murderer.”  _ Arthur leans in, hands behind his back, face serious as a funeral. “I’ve met the sort of people who ratted him out. They are unpleasant, and they are  _ cowardly.  _ They haven’t lied about him. Sirius Black, whether he is a murderer or not, is a violent, mentally ill, escaped convict. And, all signs point to him having a death grudge against you, Harry.”

“Oh, yes, because the nightmares of an emotionally stunted young man-”

Mr. Weasley cuts Aziraphale off with a noisy sigh. “He had been whispering about  _ you  _ before he escaped. Saying  _ “Harry,”  _ and the names of Black’s  _ friends-”  _ he cuts off with an angry little snarl. His face twists briefly, going so angry as to be violent. “My point is, there’s no proof that Black will not be violent in his pursuit.”

“His pursuit… of me.” Harry nods. It’s nothing new. What’s a second murderer coming after him, when he’s already got the most powerful dark wizard in the past century on his back?

“Which will amount to nothing. Even if Black does wish to harm Harry, there’s no bloody way he’s  _ getting  _ to him.” Crowley shoots Mr. Weasley a severe look. “What Arthur is trying to tell you is to be  _ cautious,  _ nothing else.”

“Don’t go chasing murderers, right,” Harry drawls. 

The truth is -- he isn’t frightened. Not because he thinks he’s well protected. For as much as he hates to admit it, darker forces have found him before. More so, it’s that he trusts Aziraphale, both in his judgment in character and in his capability. Mr. Weasley is an intelligent man, but Aziraphale is an Angel. He is 6000 years old, perhaps a bit gullible, but he is not typically fooled by someone he would genuinely call a  _ friend.  _ It helps that he’s one of Harry’s only legal guardians.

“Arthur!” 

The entire group startles, Harry’s heart rushing as he imagines whatever new murderer crossing the corner to find them. Thankfully, it’s only Mrs. Weasley, emerging from a nearby pillar and disentangling her hair with a harried expression “You’re going to make them all late!”

“Yes, alright, fine,” Arthur says, lurching into action and nodding at Crowley. “But Harry- you’ve got to promise- you can’t-”

“Go look for the man trying to murder me?” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Crowley gives his Godson a punch to the shoulder as they part ways, snorting a little and mouthing something about him being a complete liar. Which -- being honest -- is fair. But, as Harry walks up the platform, surveying those about him and leading The Dog along, he realizes he has no intention of chasing after the man. 

Harry runs up to the final compartment, the red train beginning to whistle just as Ron throws the door open. It chugs steadily forward as he slams the door shut, the last vestiges of smoke outside biting at his heels.

Then, whirling to face his friends, Harry finally speaks. “I need to talk to you. In private.” He looks at Ginny, frowns, and then prays that she hasn’t started to hate him  _ too much.  _ “Er- could you-”

As if sensing his discomfort, she snorts, a quick roll of her eyes as she starts off. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

“Great.” Harry nods at her receding back. “ Ok. Let’s go find a room?”

Their eventual destination is the last resort. Every other compartment is already packed to the brim, the one remaining open car already having an occupant. Tucked up into a corner and curled into his own chest, a man huddles, seeking protection beneath the tattered black jacket he sleeps under. There’s a deep tremor in his hands, curled and peeking up from beneath the fabric, but he seems in no danger of waking.

“Who d’you reckon that is?” hisses Ron, as the compartment door shuts behind him, the four of them taking seats as far from the window and the man as they can.

“Er- looks too old to be a student. Does his trunk say anything?”

“Professor R. J. Lupin,” Hermionesays to Neville, pointing her wand at the heavy brown suitcase settled in the rack above them. As the rest of them deposit their things within, Harry looks down at The Dog. He’s shivering, body wracked with what looks like chills, pressed close to Harry’s side. His breath is deep and ragged, and Harry can’t help but lean over and hold him closer.

“It isn’t cold, is it?” Harry frowns at the shaken heads he receives. The Dog calms down some as he sits next to Harry, but he still can’t help but be concerned. “Hm… Anyways, about what I was saying.”

He explains what Mr. Weasley had told him as quietly as he can. He’s especially quiet as he discusses Aziraphale’s adamance of Black’s innocence. He doesn’t want anyone — especially a new professor — to find out his Godfather actively supports an alleged murderer. It’s an odd conversation, Harry thinks, as Hermione starts to argue with Ron, and Ron with Neville. They’re already on edge from Black’s constant sightings only just dropping off, and Harry’s information only serves to light their nerves ablaze.

“Alright, all of you!” Harry, daring to raise his voice around the company, glares at the group. They fall short, Neville looking at the other three children sheepishly. “This whole infighting business is  _ stupid.  _ I didn’t bring it up so we could argue. I brought it up because I knew Ron’d never stop bugging me about what his father  _ wanted.” _

“Well, it was a bloody unsatisfying answer-”

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione admonishes, rolling her eyes, a bit pink from the embarrassment of Harry calling her out. “Would you shut up!”

Neville nearly smacks Ron in the face when he gestures. “Anyways! We’ve got more important things to talk about. Did you all get your permission slips for Hogsmeade signed?”

Harry brightens at the conversation shift, fingers once again rippling across The Dog’s fur as his enthusiasm returns. 

As a younger child, he’d never been allowed on out-of-school trips. The Dursley’s would always find some reason he was undeserving, stripping him of his privilege for eating too loudly at dinner or for having an unpleasant tone. One time, in one of his most vivid examples, Vernon had ripped the permission slip paper up in front of him and then had locked him in the cupboard for the week. So, needless to say, he was exceedingly excited when Crowley and Aziraphale had handed him the pre-signed form and announced that they looked forward to whatever mischief he’d get into.

Hermione smiles. “Yes! My parents were incredibly excited, but I think they more just wanted me to bring them back something.”

“You should give them something from Zonkos,” Ron says, with a sliver of a chuckle. “Maybe an exploding dentist thing-a-ma-jig?”

She frowns at him and looks meaningfully between Scabbers and Crookshanks as if to threaten to sic the cat on him. “What the hell is a dentist thing-a-ma-jig? Anyways. Neville, what about you?”

“Yeah! My gran’ said I could go as long as I got my grades up this year.”

“-It’d be a miracle-”

Neville turns and smacks Ron upside the head. Ignoring the groans that come shortly after, he turns to Hermione and Harry with another smile. “I’m excited about Honeydukes!”

“What’s that?” Asks Harry.

“It’s the sweets shop,” Ron answers, “Where they've got everything. Pepper Imps -- they make you smoke at the mouth -- and great fat Chocoballs full of strawberry mousse and clotted cream, and  _ really  _ excellent sugar quills.” He gets progressively more excited as he goes on, gesticulating wildly about how it looks to smoke at the mouth and to chew on a sugared quill. He only seems to notice when Hermione smiles at him fondly and he goes redder than before.

“Well, I think Hogsmeade in  _ general  _ is a pretty fascinating place, isn’t it?” Hermione segues, eager to find something historical to talk about.

Neville nods. “I heard it was one of Britain’s only wizard-dominated settlements. Apparently, America’s got loads of them!”

“Yeah, but the states are  _ awful,”  _ Ron moans. “It’s all restrictions and blood rules. You can’t take one step without someone shouting about muggle-wizard partnerships.”

“Yeah, but out there you don’t have to have a license to have a Knargle,” Hermione says, looking at Crookshanks in his case. “I really think it should be easier to obtain here, honestly.”

“You’d better hold onto that cat, Hermione,” Ron says in return. He points at the cage. “If that thing gets near Scabbers-”

“Or Trevor,” Neville adds, with far less bite.

“Or Trevor!” Ron nods seriously, clearly happy to add fire to his argument. Harry just snorts, leaning over to scratch at Crookshank’s nose. He seems rather fond of Harry thus far, and he’s keen to keep that favor. The Dog and Crookshanks both seem to get on as well, and that pairing is far more surprising. Ron, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to care. “If that  _ beast  _ eats my rat, I swear to-”

He cuts off. The train gives a massive shudder, and the group sits in silence for a moment as they wait for the turbulence to pass. This shivering, in itself, is nothing out of the ordinary. A small jolt, stop or pause is to be expected of a train as ancient as the Hogwarts express, even if it’s wizard made. Coming to a complete standstill, on the other hand, is entirely abnormal.

“We can’t be there yet…” Ron stands up just as the light flicks off. From there, Harry watches as he presses his hand to the windowpane, the area around his handprint frosting over entirely a moment later. “D’you think we’ve broken down?”

“Ouch, Ron!” His question goes unanswered as he steps back toward them, apparently squashing something of Hermione’s. “That’s my foot!”

“Sorry,” he groans. “But I think there’s something moving out there… It looks like people.”

“Aren’t we over a bridge?” Harry leans over, straining to look over the now-shrinking handprint on the windowpane. He confirms Ron’s suspicions, long, slender figures gliding across the air. Then, someone kicks him. “Wait- Neville- is that you?”

“No?” He hisses, and the foot moves. “Oh- oops- yes, it was, sorry.”

“It’s ok.”

“Now you’re sitting on me!” Says Ron irritatedly, and someone hits Harry’s leg. A sharp, whine of a bark hits his ears, and he goes casting about for his Dog. “Oh, sorry!”

“Ron, I think you’ve got The Dog’s tail-”

“I know, thanks, Hermione-”

“What’s that? Hello?”

“Who’s there? Ron, is that you?”

“Who just kicked me? Ow!”

_ “Quiet!”  _

Suddenly, the room goes utterly silent. Then, with a whisper and a crackling of air, it appears that the Professor has awoken. His sunken, tired face appears in a ball of light, held aloft by his fingertips and flickering wildly. His eyes, though tired, are bright and wary enough to be obviously alert. Now that Harry can see his face, it’s clear that the exhaustion in his voice is not just from being shaken awake.

“Stay where you are,” he says in that same, unchanged hoarse voice. The ball of light is steady and warm as he crosses to the door, his gaze narrowed on the doorknob of the door, starting to jiggle with the force of some unseen hand.

It opens before he can act. The professor jolts, shoved away by something as invisible as night. At first, the only visible force is the deep, impenetrable darkness outside the carriage door, and Harry is filled with a terrible fear.

Then, the room goes  _ cold _ . 

There’s a wound in his chest. It fills, to the brim, jagged edges keeping anything from spilling, with every agony felt in his lifetime, and ever next to come. He nearly doubles over -- and watches as Hermione, Ron and Neville do so -- but looks close enough to see that what has come into the room is far more than just a chill. A spindly, hunched figure, the origin of the wound and the holder of some invisible blade, slips inside with intention far too darkened to be called graceful. That’s the only word to describe it -- slips -- as if it’s floating movements are utterly at home in the horrible feeling in Harry’s chest. Professor Lupin’s movements cut short -- one, solitary bark breaks the air -- and his wandlight finally shuts off.

Whatever’s beneath the cloak notices Harry as his feet stumble backward. A hand, rotting, cruel, stretches out from beneath fabric as if to split the angry slice in Harry’s chest further apart. Then, all he can do is watch as the fabric of its hood forms before a mouth, sucked into a rattling throat, and--

\--a mouth  _ becomes. _

The cold becomes unbearable, and Harry’s pained shout is swallowed up by the vast emptiness of the creature’s mouth. His eyes find themselves suddenly shut, his mouth open, the sadness in his chest starting to move, slowing outward toward the deep, damning darkness of its mouth. 

Someone is screaming.

_ His mother is screaming. _

Then, Harry’s head hits the ground, and everything goes black.

He doesn’t pass out. He can feel The Dog’s claws digging into his chest, as it knocks him over, a sharp pain erupting in his temple. Instead, the darkness of the beast spreads, its attention suddenly casting over the room in an attempt to find its prey.

All in a sudden movement too fast to be seen, Harry sees black beginning to recede from the edge of the room. Something white, and tall, endlessly so, slides into the carriage, a many of thousands of eyes and wings shuddering and dancing, and in a sudden movement, the lights in the room slam back on with a scream.

The Dog is lying on Harry’s chest. Hermione is huddled in the corner of the seats, Crookshanks uncased and lapping his tongue down her cheek soothingly. Ron and Neville are both half-hidden behind Professor Lupin, his arms cast out as if they protect the three children. Harry finds himself tucked between two seats, his more demonic godfather standing over him with a worried look. The endless white  _ thing  _ has fled the room, replaced by Aziraphale, standing over a large hole in the bottom of the train, where the dark creature he’d been surveying seems to have disappeared through.

“You killed it,” Ron blurts, breaking the silence and pointing a shaking hand at Aziraphale, who blinks, pressing his hand to his chest as if to say  _ who, me?  _ “That- that’s a Dementor, there, and you- you _ killed it?” _

“It wasn’t a matter of  _ much,”  _ He says. Harry, shivering, feeling close to tears, shakes his head. This catches Aziraphale’s attention -- mistaking Harry’s admiring expression for one of horror -- rushes over. “Oh- dear-- Harry, are you- are you alright?” He crouches down, worrying his hands as Crowley helps Harry up. The Dog growls, earlier fear arising, but allows the Demon a moment to help unhindered before he aces in front of Harry protectively.

Before Harry can answer, the professor walks over and shoves something toward him. “Eat it,” he says, just as Harry recognizes it as a large block of chocolate. Unsurprisingly, the man’s hands are shaking more than before. He glances at the dog -- his face goes whiter still -- but he shakes his head, handing the chocolate off before making a hasty escape backward. 

There’s far too much happening too quickly for Harry to realize he’s being hugged till after it happens. Crowley yanks him fiercely to his chest and mutters something like an apology, a hand curling into Harry’s hair gently. 

“I haven’t seen those,” he starts, quiet and reserved, “Since my last place of employment.

“You worked at  _ Azkaban?”  _ Neville asks, gaping, the first thing he’s been able to say at all. Everyone in the room looks rather disturbed by the fact -- even the adult, this new Professor Lupin backing slowly away, though Harry can’t tell if he’s walking away from The Dog or his Godfathers.

“He worked somewhere far more unpleasant than  _ that,”  _ Aziraphale says with a sigh. He leans over, tugging Harry into a hug so fierce it crushes his chest. But, he sinks into it, the tight feeling a far cry from the cutting blade-edge of sadness he’d felt only a moment before. Aziraphale pulls back after a few moments, sniffling. “And yes. I did kill it.  _ Ghastly  _ creature, it was. I haven’t heard it called a dementor, though.”

“Enemy,” Crowley spits, angry. He regards the hole below them with a bitter stare. Wind howls outside of it, but all Harry can hear is the echo of a woman’s scream. “Ekthroi, and Slaughter, and hate. Humanities own bitter constructs, given form. Ktch- They’re disgusting.”

The fact that even a Demon of hell finds them unsettling is enough that Harry finds himself very grateful The Dog had knocked him out of the way. He leans over and cups the mutt’s face, a shaky sigh falling from his lips with a near-silent word of thanks.

The rest of the train ride never quite regains its aura of excitement. Whispers and frightened looks cast about the train, helped only slightly by the candy handed out by a very worried looking trolley-woman. The professor -- who introduces himself as their new defense teacher -- disappears not long after everything, leaving Harry, Neville, Hermione, and Ron to find a new car. The hole, where the Dementor had once stood, whistles mournfully as they leave. Each of them nearly trips inside, and Harry can’t shake the feeling it’s still trying to take him within.

They end up relocated in the teacher's car -- empty, save for Crowley, Aziraphale, and Professor Lupin, who had apparently not been informed of its existence. No one talks much. The trip is spent in a shivering, close sort of fear, each of the children of the group huddled to their pets and each of the remaining guardians on the train surveying them in quiet worry. Harry can’t even feel embarrassed at the attention his friends give him. The feeling of their bodies pressed against his is enough for some of the chills within him to recede. 

The platform they rumble up to is mercifully free of dementors. He’s slightly warmed by the appearance of Hagrid -- he looks invigorated, grinning wild as he holds not a lantern, but a spluttering, lit wand in his hand -- but it does nothing to break his apprehension as he crosses to the carriages.

He enters the carriage and finds himself surprised. Instead of only Ginny sitting in the car, he finds himself facing a girl he hasn’t seen before. She’s exceptionally pale, her skin ever-brightened by hair whiter than the moon rustling about her shoulders. There’s a dreamy, far off look to her face as they each sit down, her gaze fixed somewhere to the left, at the front of the carriage. As he glances over, he realizes what he had thought was a normal horse pulling them along is something  _ far  _ different.

It almost looks like one of the dementors, with sunken, stretched skin, looking gangrenous, and rotted. They’re held together by thin, brittle bones, shifting beneath their skin. The only difference between these skeletal beasts and the freakish forms of a dementor, in fact, is the soft, nearly gentle look to their face.

“Thestrals,” says the girl, softly, looking at his face with a look of recognition. She smiles, and nods, pleasantly, before turning back to her magazine. It’s upside down. “He’s a thestral. A pretty one, too, isn’t he?”

“Excuse me?” Says Hermione, stepping over to look. “Oh, you’re…” She pauses as if reexamining her next words. “You’re Luna.”

“It’s quite alright,” replies Luna, in the same, floaty voice as before. “I know what they call me.”

Hermione blushes scarlet. Ron, taking his chance to hop up into the carriage and drop Scabbers to the floor, frowns at the newcomer confusedly, gesturing to the horse. “There’s… nothing there?”

“Yes, there is?” Harry says, scowling. He reaches out with an uncertain hand, but at Luna’s nod, he places a hand to the horse's neck, feeling the soft, gentle skin, covered with a peach fuzz of hair. “I mean, it’s a little dark, but blimey, Ron, they’re still there-”

“There really isn’t Harry,” Hermione tells him, looking almost worried. He can feel himself growing even more cross by the minute. “The horses are pulled by magic. Not…”

“Thestrals,” Luna provides once again. She seems completely undaunted by the almost insulting looks being thrown at her. And, really, Harry can feel his annoyance grow as well. But, then, he looks down and sees The Dog, nudging at the back of one of the thestral’s legs, his tail wagging jovially. “Look: His Dog can see them.”

The rest of the group peaks over the edge of the carriage to confirm it. Harry supposes that the Dog must look rather odd, fur bending under the weight of a leg when the others can apparently not even see the appendage. 

“Then why can’t we?”

Luna looks at Neville and her smile grows, the chance to explain -- the fact that someone even asked -- seeming to make her endlessly happy. 

“Why- only those who have met death, can.” She says it with a voice far too cheery to be normal, but Harry finds himself smiling. She seems almost contagious -- a little loopy, a little amusing, but clearly intelligent. “If you’ve ever seen someone die, that is.” At the odd looks she gets, she nods. “My mother was a  _ brilliant  _ witch. She just experimented a little bit too much one day, and…”

The carriage lurches to a start. The Dog and Crookshanks pat alongside it, giving each other oddly communicative looks. “And I… well.” Harry points to his scar. “And I think I might’ve killed Professor Quirrel?” 

(He does not mention the fact that Azrael, Angel, personification, and Horseman of Death has come to his home quite frequently to speak to his Godfather. He also does not mention that his Godfather is a Demon who was once an Archangel amongst the standing of such-beings-as-Death-themself. He  _ also  _ does not mention that Death tends to be a big fan of card tricks, and Harry might be training to learn some so he can impress his newly appointed god-uncle-but-without-a-gender.)

The rest of the carriage ride, Neville, Ron, and Hermione seem to be attempting to  _ avoid  _ the topic of death horses. Harry doesn’t bring it up anymore for their sakes, but Luna sings something soft and ancient as she leans over the side of the carriage, holding out little pieces of steak jerky for the horse to take from her hand. 

When they finally reach the wrought-iron gates before the castle, Harry’s hit with an immediate chill. It’s the same as the train, and he leans over, bracing himself for an awful surge of sadness.

Instead, the cold stays simply frigid. He sees Aziraphale, up ahead, white clothes and hair obvious against the dark of the night, handing chocolate to students. Crowley, nearby, is shouting what sounds like profanity in some long-forgotten language at the Dementors, cowering by the gates. As Aziraphale pats Luna’s hand and gives her an extra piece of chocolate -- she’s holding back an expression of sadness with a smile, Harry realizes suddenly, as he watches her hands shaking -- he decides that at least for now, things will be ok.

Once he makes it inside the castle, the chill dissipates. It’s well lit and comfortably warm, and Professor McGonagall meets their batch with a soft  _ “Are you all alright?”  _

It quickly becomes apparent that the disappearing cold is not a natural one, though, as whispers start to rise and eyes turn toward a bright flash of white. A massive white, glowing wolf leaps over their group as students duck and shout in wonder. Professor Lupin, bedraggled and scowling, casts the huge, lit up form, its hackles bristling as it snarls at invisible forms outside. Somehow, Harry can feel that the Dementor it’s barking at has begun to recede.

“That’s a Patronus,” Hermione whispers in awe. “I’ve heard they’re really hard to cast.”

“A wolf.” Luna pulls a small notebook out of her pocket and thumbs through it for a moment. “My dad says that one means the caster is protective, family-oriented, and  _ maybe  _ has a bit of a temper.”

Ginny, who’d joined them not soon after their arrival, lights up. A bit intrusively, she peers right into the notebook and starts to read. “Do you just have those all written down?”

“Mhm!” Luna pulls her wand out and whispers something into it, pointing it at the pages. It flickers through what seems like far too many pieces of parchment for one leather-bound case. “I write down lots of my notes. Did you know that the sorting hat doesn’t know what chocolate is?”

\---

The feast itself is nothing short of magnificent. 

The introductions and rules listed afterward? 

Not so much.

Professor Lupin looks half asleep by the time Dumbledore gets around to introducing him. Hagrid, beaming wide, is much more enthusiastic when it is announced he’ll begin to be their Care of Magical Creatures professor. Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Neville all take turns glaring at the giggling and groans coming from some people around them.

The mood is dampened only seconds afterward when the headmaster announces, looking annoyed all by himself, the newly defined presence of Dementors on the castle grounds. Crowley stabs his fork so hard into his plate that it cracks, scowling, at the mention. 

The rest of the feast goes in much of the same awkward fashion. The food, of course, is fantastic. But whatever excitement it brings is lessened for the year, each person clearly uneasy. If the school needed something like a Dementor to make sure its students were safe from Sirius Black, what was the murderer himself like? 

And, with rumors of Harry and several other’s reactions already circulating, were they even any safer at all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IIIIIIIIIII REALLY LIKE LUPIN IF YOU COULDN'T TELL
> 
> He is one of my favorite characters and I fucking HATE JK Rowling for what was done to him. An AIDS METAPHOR? Are you deadass Joan?? That's the best you could come up with? And the one person that has accepted their "AIDS" Is an evil monster who preys on children?????? HELLO???????????????? And then Lupin marries a woman, spends all his time being unable to REALLY get close to her, and then DIES the moment it seems like they could conceivably have a happy ending.
> 
> Anyways.
> 
> It might seem a little unrealistic that he doesn't immediately go wait wtf that's my ex boyfriend murderer? The moment he sees The Dog. And to that, I say: Denial (And some suspension of belief on your own part, dear reader) goes very far.


	3. The Hippogriff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I'm gonna try and not be self-deprecating in my notes this time
> 
> so
> 
> hi
> 
> I hope that you enjoy!
> 
> Info about the chapter in the end notes!
> 
> ALSO I'VE DISLIKED THE NAME OF THIS AND THE PAST INSTALLMENT FOR A WHILE SO THEY MIGHT GET CHANGED IM SORRY

It’s only with a fair amount of luck, an odd painting of a knight, and Professor Trewlaney’s forgetfulness that Harry, Neville, Ron, and Hermione make it to the North tower for Divination at all. If the castle was winding before, the new destination makes it nearly impossible to traverse. Upon entering, they’re all so confused by its grandmother’s-attic appearance -- plush, velvet couches, dusty ceiling, birds nesting in the top of the rafters -- that they almost leave to search onward.

“Welcome.”

They startle. Neville, especially, trips backward and into one of the chairs. The sweat rolling down his brow seems to be from more than just the stifling heat of the room. 

“How nice to finally see you in the physical realm,” says their newest professor in a voice both dreamlike and aggressive. She matches her attic aesthetic perfectly, with long, unkempt brown hair, a colorful bandana tying it back and nearly covering the huge, globe-like blue glasses hanging low on her nose. Piles of bangles and jewels hang loosely about her thin neck, joined by a maroon set of robes that somehow make her look even shorter than she is. “Sit, children, sit down.”

They climb awkwardly into the armchairs around them, Harry and Neville squeezing into one, small couch, avoiding a bright pink stain on one of the other chairs that smells vaguely of vomit. 

“Welcome to Divination,” says the woman, scattering a handful of herbs into a cup of tea. Looking down, Harry can see an identical cup sitting on his table. "My name is Professor Trelawney. You may not have seen me before. I find that... descending too often into the hustle and bustle of the main school clouds my  _ Inner Eye." _

No one but Lavender Brown, a fluffy-looking Gryffindor third year, and Pansy Parkinson, a flat-faced Slytherin girl of the same age, look much excited at all. Hermione looks close to irritation, drumming her fingernails on the antique tablecloth of her table. Her book, discarded on the floor, is a bit of a shock.

Professor Trelawney casts her shawl about and sets her cup down. Then, without warning, she jerks her head up and a frantic look comes over her globulous eyes. Harry thinks she looks a bit like a fish.

“You boy!” She points at Neville with a shaking hand, the other appearing to cover her mouth in horrified shock. “Is your grandmother quite well?”

“I- I think so?” 

“Ah.” Professor Trelawney whirls around and plucks up another girl’s cup. She clucks. It’s faux enigmatic. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

She swirls the tea leaves around in the cup. Parvati Patil, a brown-skinned girl, sitting high and proud, sags under the professor’s scrutiny. 

“Beware,” Professor Trewlaney says to her tremulously after a moment of thought, “Of red-haired men!”

The girl thanks her a bit nervously, and then notices Ron sitting behind her. She immediately shoves her chair backward. Indiscreetly. 

Finally, the professor gives the class actual instructions. They’re all made to drink their tea to the dregs -- a brown, murky liquid, tasting faintly of lavender -- and let it, as Trewlaney had put it, “dance within the depths of thy gaze.” Ron spills half of his on the floor and Neville down his shirt. Hermione nearly drinks half of her dregs.

Unfortunately, as soon as it seems she might be just as befuddled by the perfume in the air, Professor Trewlaney’s gaze is drawn their way. She goes rustling over, hurried footsteps bringing the entire rest of the class to a standstill.

“What do you  _ see,  _ my dear?” she asks Ron, who has been consulting  _ Unfogging The Future  _ upside down for the past five minutes. He blushes, flips it, and then squints narrowly into Harry’s tea leaves.

“Err- well. Right- Harry’s got a sort of wonky cross? An’ that’s trials and suffering.” He flips a few pages and lands on a random sign, hoping to find something mystical enough to appease his teacher. “And then a sunshine, and that one’s great happiness…?” Ron lets out a tiny snicker. Harry kicks him beneath the table. “So you’re gonna… suffer, but you’re gonna be… Happy about it. Sorry mate.”

“Give me the cup!” Cries the Professor, clenching and unclenching her fingers in a grabbing motion. “The cup, dear!”

Ron hands it off as quickly as he can. The professor starts to twist it back and forth, and, almost instantly, she lets out a hoarse little shout. 

“The Grim!” she holds a shaking hand up to her chest, collapses into the vomit-scented armchair, and utters another groan of misery.”My dear boy- the Grim!”

“What’s the grim?” Asks someone from the back of the class.

“The grim,” explains Dean Thomas boredly, who had been snogging Seamus Finnigan half the class, “is an omen of death. And bad things. It takes the form of a big, black dog.”

Half of Harry’s classmates refuse to look him in the eyes for the rest of the class. He has to admit, though, that Divination class makes the “bad things” predicted for his life seem like nothing.

By the time their group marches down the tower, out the door, into the foggy front of Hogwarts castle, it seems that the fuss has started to die. Transfiguration confirms what Harry and Hermione had thought -- that though powerful, Divination can be about as confusing as getting a phoenix to take a bath. A few students -- namely Parvati, who won’t stop side-eyeing Ron unpleasant -- seem to hold firm to their beliefs, but the excitement of seeing Hagrid teaching far outweighs Harry’s irritation.

A group composed of a half Gryffindor and half Slytherin mix goes staggering down the steep, sloping lawns that lead to Hagrid’s hut, just beyond it the Forbidden forest. The Gameskeeper himself is sat outside, practicing a neat little spell to change the color of Fang’s collar.

“God, this place has gone to the dogs,” sneers an all-too-familiar voice. Malfoy steers himself into view, taking up a large amount of the path and talking animatedly with Crabbe and Goyle. “Letting an oaf like that wandless freak-”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry says before he can stop himself. The boy and his lackeys freeze, and he is immediately reminded that he is no longer sitting in the hospital wing, talking to an isolated, defensive, preteen. Malfoy clearly has grown, and with his friends around him, his presence is much more than that of a boy missing a few ribs.

The three of them chortle, glancing between themselves then back at Harry. “Got something to say, Potter?”

“Actually, Malfoy, I’m decently sure that I d-”

“Alright, alright’ there!” A clap and a shout interrupts their bickering. Hagrid walks over, rounding up stragglers, right in time for Harry’s impulse to punch the other boy to start, and, nearly take over. "Got a real treat for yeh today! Great lesson comin' up! Everyone here? Right, follow me!"

For a moment, Harrys afraid Hagrid might be over-excited enough to lead their group off to study giants or spirits deep in the forest. However, Hagrid leads them only a yard or two within, where a well lit and quite open clearing lies waiting.

“Alright, gather roun’ here! Open yer books up t-”

“How do we  _ open  _ them?” Neville whispers to Harry. Almost all the other students look just as confused. Aziraphale, who thought the book was clever -- if needlessly destructive -- had shown Harry the trick.

“You stroke the spine,” he whispers, demonstrating. Luckily, most of the other students notice and fill in the blanks. Hagrid seems not to see, and Harry feels a fiercely protective urge in his chest. He wants this first lesson to go  _ well.  _

The Gameskeeper- no, The  _ Professor  _ strolls into a shed at the edge of the clearing, returning with large strips of leather -- each with several hooks dug into the scales of fish -- slung over his shoulder. Humming to himself, he walks to the other end, digging one arm into the endlessly dense tree-cover and returning with… something.

It’s a bird. A bird, and a horse, and a… cat? It’s a bit hard to decipher, with it’s twitching silver wings, hung up against a horse’s torso, but with massive talons in place of hooves that look nearly an inch long each. The thing’s face seems to be that of a large eagle, with bright orange eyes that nearly reflect off of its own feathers.

“This,” Hagrid starts, with an absolutely adoring voice, as if he’s just met a rather nice old woman who wants to bake him a pie, “Is a Hippogriff!”

He tosses a fish at the Hippogriff. It leaps off the ground, letting out an angry squawk and grabbing the fish in midair, crushing it instantly.

“Teh’be exact, ‘is name is  _ Buckbeak.  _ Beautiful, isn’t he?”

Harry’s inclined to agree. After the shock of seeing something part-bird, part-horse runs out, he is quite wonderful. Every feather runs backward perfectly, shifting from fur and hair, then back to the same silver and olive green feathers. His eyes look down at their group as if surveying both a meal and a potential servant. He screams  _ power --  _ and Harry thinks that if he wasn’t under control, he’d likely be able to bite any of their heads off. A shiver runs through him at the thought.

"Now, firs' thing yeh gotta know abou' Hippogriffs is… They’re proud. Easily offended.” Hagrid leans in for emphasis. “Don’  _ ever  _ insult a Hypogriff, cause it might end up bein’ one of the last things yeh’ do.”

This seems to make the rest of the class move closer if only to keep the wrath of the creature at bay. Hagrid beams.

“Now, th’ firs’ thing you ought to do is wait for th’ Hippogriff to make the  _ first move.  _ It’s polite, you see? Yeh walk toward him-” Hagrid demonstrates by moving closer “-Yeh bow-” he does this as well, nearly dropping his remaining fish. “-An’ if he bows back, then yeh’re allowed to touch him.” 

Buckbeak bends one leg forward and stoops, head coming down and feathers rippling upward. Hagrid places one massive hand on his forehead. It’s almost dwarfed by the Hippogriff's size, though, even with his status as a half-giant, and he rumbles with a laugh.

“Right,” Hagrid continues, quickly spinning to face the group. “Who wants to go first?”

No one, it seems. Not a hand raised, or a smirk of confidence, or a shy nod. Hagrid looks crestfallen for a split second. Then, Harry steps forward, smiling encouragingly, and nods.

“I’ll do it.”

“Good man, Harry!” Hagrid says immediately as if the words had been waiting on his tongue. Lavender and Padma hiss something about his tea leaves. Harry ignores it, steps just near enough to not initiate anything with the Hippogriff, and waits. “Let’s see how y’ do.”

Hagrid leads Buckbeak forward by the one, long, chain wrapped about the cuff on his neck. The pounding in Harry’s heart can barely be distinguished between fear and anticipation, as he takes another step, looking at the bird with an expression he hopes is satisfactory.

“Now, yeh’ve gotta make eye contact. Jus’ like a human, they are, Hippogriffs, they think blinkin’ too much makes yeh’ shifty.”

Harry’s eyes start to water behind his glasses. Still, he doesn’t blink, bowing his head some to look at the Hippogriff straight ahead. It’s staring at him, one, sharp orange eye focused directly on both of his own.

“Thas it, Harry…” Hagrid sounds proud of both himself and his student to the point of tears. “That’s it. Now…. bow!”

He obeys. Harry leans over, one hand coming to hang lazily against his chest in as reverent a position as he can. He stands straight a few moments later, posture perfect and eyes searching the Hippogriff for any sign of distrust. For a moment, he’s afraid that’s all he can find.

Then, just as he had with Hagrid, Buckbeak sinks into a low bow, scaly front knees bending in a sign of unmistakable respect. A few students behind him even begin to clap.

“Well done, Harry!” Hagrid claps alongside them, then slaps the boy on the back just gently enough that he doesn’t faceplant. “Well done! Yeh can go up an’ touch him now.”

Harry does so -- patting Buckbeak's beak gently -- and the Hippogriff closes his eyes, clearly enjoying every moment. Now, every student breaks into some sort of relieved/celebratory noise, save for a few of the Slytherins. 

“I reckon you’re ready to ride ‘im now, eh?”

Unfortunately, Harry is too distracted by Hagrid sweeping him up off the ground and planting him firmly on Buckbeak’s back to think much about that statement. He’s a fine broomstick rider, he knows, but he’d never signed up to fly on the back of a magical half-bird-half-horse. He says so, but Hagrid just chuckles and slaps the flank of the creature. Buckbeak squawks, undignified, and starts to flex his wings.

“Don’t pull out his feathers, cause he won’t thank you for that! Hold on tight!”

And, with that, the Professor tosses a fish high up into the air, and Buckbeak chases after it.

Without warning, 12 feet long wings open on either side of Harry, obstructing his view as they flap, once, and hoist him off the ground. He’s given half a second to seize the feathers on the back of the hippogriff’s back, and then they’re into the open air.

It’s nothing like riding a broomstick. There’s something more alive about it, equal parts terrifying and thrilling to know that Buckbeak controls his entire trajectory. There’s no swerving of wood or brush of twine around the end of a broomstick. It’s the rush of air, faster than he’s ever felt, pushing his hair past his forehead and slamming into his chest with the force of a hex.

Soon, he leans forward. He doesn’t dare even try to re-tighten his grip on the feathers, in fear that the slippery things might just run through his fingers and send him off of the hippogriff. But, he cranes his neck about, watching in awe as Buckbeak flies, skimming the air with his claws. There’s a great dip as the beast twists toward the ground, and Harry lets out a whoop, reaching down a hand to meet the lake where Buckbeak dives toward it. The wet sprays up into his face and he laughs, listening to the sounds of Buckbeak’s squawk as a fish gets caught in one of his talons. 

Then -- the part Harry’s been dreading. Not so much the descent to the ground, but the fact that he’s completely sure he’ll slip off Buckbeak entirely the moment the creature lands. So, as he rises, Harry clutches tight, enjoying the last moments of cloud-cover, mist blanketing over them as Buckbeak soars, high above the ground, and coasts back to Hagrid.

The hippogriff circles the clearing once, twice, before landing on the ground. Harry nearly pitches forward and hits the ground, but steadies himself just in time for shouts and whoops of excitement to register.

“Well done, Harry!” Calls Hagrid, soundtracked by almost everyone in the class clapping and cheering him on. Hermione has raced forward and begun to volunteer herself to go next.

But - she’s pushed away. As Hagrid unloads Harry from Buckbeak’s back, he watches Malfoy stride, clearly a bit embarrassed about his earlier apprehension, toward the Hippogriff. He eyes the boy warily, clearly with no intention to bow or submit to the Slytherin. But still, Malfoy advances, looking as confident as ever.

“Oh really,” he sneers, hands fisted at his side before he reaches up, gesticulating so wildly at the bird he nearly hits it. “I bet you’re not dangerous at all, are you? You big ugly brute-”

Harry barely notices as the Hippogriff rises up. It happens in such a flash that he thinks, if he hadn’t been so close, he’d barely have noticed till Malfoy was on the ground. In another time, perhaps, he’d be too far away to act. In another time, if he and Hagrid weren’t as close, and thoughts of what might happen if Hagrid’s class got such a rich student hurt hadn’t been passing through his mind, he wouldn’t have wanted to even try.

But, as is, he’s far too worried that Hagrid's course, job, or life might be ruined. His wand revoked once again, his teaching license ripped apart, along with whatever hope he’d started to regain. So, when Harry rushes forward, tackles Malfoy to the ground, and starts throwing punches, he doesn’t even think. 

The sniveling blonde lets out a high-pitched scream as Harry lands firmly across his chest. He’s up in an instant, because if there’s one thing Crowley and Aziraphale have taught him, it’s that he’s not supposed to stand by for  _ bullies.  _ Nevermind whether they’d want him to being doing this -- he’s got other things to worry about.

Something hot trickles down his shoulder, but he doesn’t even have time to notice when he leans over Malfoy again, balling his fist and planting it straight into the boy’s nose. With a crack and a shrill shriek, spurts of red fly out of Malfoy’s nostrils. Someone’s arms loop under his shoulders and Harry shouts at them to get off, trying desperately to fly back at Malfoy.

“Harry! Ow- Harry, it’s Ron! Cool off, mate!”

His vision, narrowed down onto the pool of blood starting to flow into Malfoy’s open lips, untunells, and Harry suddenly sees more than red. The class is staring at him, stunned, eyes open and shocked at the display. Ron’s behind him, hauling him toward Hagrid and away, Neville Dragging Malfoy back as well.

“I bet you’ve never been in a  _ real fight,”  _ Harry snarls. He’s more than experienced on the matter. Little, sad, orphaned, and young Harry Potter, heading home with bruises that went untreated and once, a broken arm that had miraculously healed over the weekend, despite never getting any treatment. Not a teacher who cared about poor Mr. Potter, who had broken glasses and bad marks and who cried a lot. Who seemed to try and get bullies to attack him, trying to fail his classes, trying to make  _ trouble. _ “I bet you’ve only ever waved your- your  _ wand,  _ and your stupid money- and- and your  _ power-” _

“Detention!”

He whips around. Ron lets him go -- Harry falls to the ground, scrambling up just as quick -- and watches as Hagrid hauls a whimpering Malfoy up off his knees.

“As soon as I- as I take young Malfoy ‘ere to th’ hospital wing and he gets his nose sorted out, you’re…” Hagrid seems very desperately trying to not panic. Harry feels the rage drain from him in an instant. He goes pale, and nausea and adrenaline hit as a force of anxiety rather than fuel to his flame.”You’ve both earn’ta detention.”

“Me?” Malfoy cries, trying to staunch the bleeding. “Wh’ meeb?”

“Fer- fer incitin’ violence! Disturbin’ the piece and deliberately disobeyin’ me in the face of a potentially dangerous  _ magical creature!”  _ Hagrid turns to harry. He looks close to tears, and Harry nearly feels inclined to cry as well. “An- and you-” The man suddenly goes pale. “Wait… I think yeh’d better come with me too, Harry.”

“Wh- what?” he manages to croak. Ron, still standing next to him, prods at his shoulder. A white-hot heat surrounds the area, and he hisses, lurching back. When he looks down, a deep gash can be seen, running from the top of his collarbone to right below his neck, his sternum shining red and the shirt below it just as bright. “Oh.”

“Oh. Oh? That’s all you have to say?” Hermione hooks her arm around his good arm and starts tugging him forward. She shakes her head. “You’re so stupid.”

\---

Neither of them ends up serving detention.

Hagrid seems far too guilty to make them go through any more sort of punishment. He says something about them having already learned their lessons, gesturing to the blood all over the place, and awkwardly shuffles away to go and find Madame Pomfrey. She returns in a bustle of gowns and gauze, huffing out a complaint about always seeing Harry in the wing. 

He just holds his arm out, lets her heal it the best she can, and tries to grit his teeth through it. He’s dealt with far worse, and he watches the cut shrink much smaller in a moment. Malfoy, apparently, has not dealt with any pain greater than a bandaid being torn off. He shrieks as Madame Pomfrey fixes his nose, clutching at the sheets and writhing for almost an entire minute after she pulls away. Honestly, it’s a little funny to see.

That night, after dinner, Hermione, Ron, and Neville all retrieve Harry from the hospital room while Madame Pomfrey is out. The remaining bandages on his shoulder seem to be a nasty shock, as Neville goes quite pale.

“It isn’t too bad,” he says truthfully. This doesn’t seem to reassure anyone. Least of all Ron, who gives him a doubtful look and rolls his eyes. “I’m serious!”

“You looked like mincemeat not a few hours ago, Harry,” Hermione informs him. But still, they manage to smuggle him out of the room -- he wasn’t due for much longer, anyways -- and toward the library. 

“Professor Fell wanted us to bring you to him. Sorry, Harry,” Neville says, nervous, as they approach the door. Harry is actually surprised -- because, coming from the room, seems to be the smell of food. “See you in the common room later?”

“Yeah,” he says distractedly. He’s more worried about getting  _ grounded. _ “O’course.”

The room’s lit solely by candlelight. Within, there’s one of the library tables, set out for wayward studiers, laid out with a small dinner. Aziraphale and Crowley are sat -- more like “lounged, lazily” on Crowley’s part -- in seats, the Angel already eating and Crowley staring at the food with disdain. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale looks up and smiles. “Harry! So sorry we couldn’t come and visit you in the Hospital wing, earlier, dear. Would you sit?”

Harry nods, and does so, running a hand across the wood and pretending he’s interested in eating. When the quiet gets too unbearable, though, he looks up.

“I’m not sorry. Not for hitting him.”

Crowley, left leg hooked up and over the corner of the table ungracefully, barks out a wheeze.  _ “Sorry?  _ We’d be barking mad to think you- you’d be sad about punching  _ Malfoy.  _ Me? Personally? I’m proud.” Aziraphale shoots him a dark look. The Demon falters, rolls his eyes, and continues. “But- er- it wassss a little…. Out of character?”

“Malfoy’s an idiot. He would’ve gotten Hagrid fired if he’d been the one who’d gotten hurt!”

“Crowley never said we were all that angry, either, Harry!” reminds Aziraphale hurriedly. “It’s just that…”

“I mean, Aziraphale won’ admit it…” Crowley waves a hand around and takes a drink of what looks like coffee, but smells deeply of alcohol. “But he’s jussst as inclined to start punching twerpy little nitwits like Malfoy-”

“I am an  _ Angel-” _

“Only by technicality,” Harry adds, earning him a glare from the Angel in question and a grin from the Demon beside him. 

“But  _ really.”  _ The words hang in the air for a moment as Crowley shifts in his seat. “That…  _ child, _ needs a reality check. If I wasn’t rather fond of my students, I might be more inclined to give it to him.”

_ “But-  _ as it is, Crowley, dear, you’re a bit fond of children, too-”

“ _ Ehhngggg…” _

“Don’t deny it,” Aziraphale says warmly. “My point is, Harry, to that, is that Malfoy really is just a child. A discriminatory, belligerent, rude, child, who is absolutely not  _ my  _ favorite. But he’s just that. A child. He will grow, and whether that be for better or worse, it will happen. Neither of us has any authority over his upbringing. Other than that of his professors.”

“What he means,” Crowley continues, “Is that Malfoy is a piece of Hell-Cursed  _ work.  _ You’re probably the first time anyone here has had the bravery to actually punch a sneer off his face. But, as you’ve probably noticed, he’s a bit more complicated than just… erg-”

“Than just him” Aziraphale finishes, rather unhelpfully. “It isn’t that some people don’t deserve to be punched, but really, Harry, I’d prefer that you left the punching for outside of school grounds, and perhaps to the adults.”

“Unless they punch first.”

“Unless they punch first,” agrees Aziraphale with a nod. “Oh- but do be careful! They might just be doing it  _ fondly.” _

Crowley snorts. Aziraphale turns a bit pink round the ears, ignoring him. Harry speculates that his Godparents might’ve run into an issue with friendly fire before.

“That’s fair,” he mutters and picks up a piece of bread. “Am I gonna get... I dunno, expelled?”

“Hell’s, no,” Crowley says with a snort. “But, knowing  _ anything  _ about that weasel, he’ll probably try to get his father on your case.”

“But you needn’t worry.” Aziraphale smiles. “All we need you to do… Perhaps, would you talk to Hagrid?”

Harry nods. If there’s one thing about the situation he  _ had  _ felt guilty about, it was ruining the lesson.

The next morning, he does just that. Hagrid is receptive and understanding, though there’s a definite aura of worry about him. Harry swallows down his guilt -- this apology isn’t about him -- and tries his best, ultimately leaving for the morning feast on what he hopes are good terms. 

Back at the feast, he gets quite a few nasty glances from the Slytherins. Malfoy seems to be milking his “injury” for all that it’s worth, bragging about how he’d nearly been killed before the Weasley boy pulled Potter off of him. Apparently, it was already becoming a bit of a scandal. Harry ignores him, walking past a group of jeering first years and plunking himself down in his seat. His bandages aren’t actually as unnecessary as Malfoy’s -- they’re rather itchy, in fact -- as Madame Pomfrey had said the newly grown skin would be too  _ delicate  _ for the elements yet. 

“That’s gnarly, that is,” says Seamus Finnigan seriously. “It looked worth it to me, though, eh, Potter?”

“Maybe a little,” he admits, risking a little grin as Hermione starts to scowl at him.

“Malfoy’s a git,” says Ron through a mouthful of toast. “Bu’you’d better not get expelled for that! I don’t want Hermione and Neville to be my only friends. Who’d I have to talk about quidditch with?” He moans, quickly dodging Hermione’s quill, which she throws at his forehead.

He ends up ignoring most of the squabble that comes afterward. He’s got more interesting things to worry about -- namely his next lesson. His first Defense Against The Dark Arts class of the year promises to be  _ very  _ interesting if the fiasco on the train and the bright, shining Patronus that had appeared in the castle was anything.

Professor Lupin, as shabby as he has been every time Harry’s seen him -- but still with that oddly handsome youth to him, as if he’d shot up like a root and grown far too quickly as a teenager -- stands in the middle of a nearly empty classroom as soon as they walk inside. The desks have been shoved away, the hanging skeletons and the carved statues and models about all pushed into closets or corners.

“Good afternoon,” he says, unfolding his hands from behind his back and walking up to greet them. “Would you all please put your books in your bags? Today will be a more practical lesson. Wands only.”

The last time they’d had a practical lesson was when their buffoon of a former professor had set a cage of neon blue pixies upon them. Most of the class -- and Neville especially, looking about for a cage nervously -- groans.

“Right then,” says the man with a bit of a chuckle. “If you’d all follow me.”

They follow him into the middle of the room, assembling in a circle per his instruction. By now, everyone’s quite confused. Even Malfoy -- who’d been giving Harry a death glare for the past few minutes -- seems more interested in the proceedings than murdering Harry with his brainpower, which, Harry reckons, is too small to handle that sort of task.

“Now. I’m sure you’re all aware of a certain new addition to the security of Hogwarts, correct?” Professor Lupin nods at them as the class expresses their annoyance with the Dementors. “Right. Of course: Dementors are a  _ deeply  _ unpleasant sort of creature. In history, they’ve been named many things. Demons, Fae, and most commonly, by muggles, extreme forms of Depression. It is, of course, none of this.”

Harry, remembering the creature he’d faced on the train, and Crowley’s absolute lack of anything but a bored distaste, thinks that if it were a real Demon, his Godfather might’ve been more inclined to murder it himself.

“Dementor’s are an exceptionally powerful sort of non-being, as classified by the Ministry of Magic. They’re amongst the foulest things to walk the earth -- living in the most infected and filthy places, finding those weakest and preying on everything within them. Can anyone tell me what their  _ diet  _ is?”

Neville raises his hand uncertainly. No one else seems to know. But -- Neville had told Harry once, offhandedly, that his parents were veteran Aurors -- and he supposes it makes sense.

“Fear, isn’t it?”

Lupin thanks him for the answer, but shakes his head. “That’s a common misconception. Dementors relish our pain, and our fear, and sadness. But they do not  _ eat  _ it. That privilege is reserved for all of what makes us truly happy. Our loves, our passions, everything ever good to happen in our lives. I know that several students here have had quite visceral reactions to Dementors, and I can tell you that that is  _ ok.  _ I, myself, find them overly-unpleasant. Many of us who were around for the great wizarding war are quite affected by them. Passing out, vomiting, uncontrollable sobbing?” he waves a hand. “I’ve seen it all.”

Lupin draws his wand and moves it in a slow, swirling motion. A small spool of white comes from the end, unraveling, growing until it starts to take shape. The class watches in awe as a large, bedraggled wolf clothed in starlight and sea-water comes forth, turning to face Lupin with a neatly obedient look. 

For a moment the man looks at the animal with an expression verging on sad. As Harry looks closer, he realizes that the wolf is too small to be just that -- it looks almost like a very large  _ dog.  _

Then, the expression is gone, and the wolf starts to walk around the circle of students, letting them gasp and pet at its fur, and Harry dismisses the observation as a trick of the light.

“This, as some of you might know, is called a Patronus. The Patronus is a kind of positive force, a projection of the very things that the Dementor feeds upon -- hope, happiness, the desire to survive -- but it cannot feel despair, as real humans can, so the Dementors can't hurt it. I believe that, due to the reactions of some students to the dementors, learning this charm -- even only as a final defense -- has become necessary.”

“But sir, isn’t the Patronus meant to be a really  _ hard  _ charm?” asks Hermione, though she seems eager to try it.

“It is, Ms. Granger. More powerful wizards than you all have tried and failed before. But here’s the thing about spells like this -- it’s all about  _ convincing  _ yourself you’re doing it right. A Patronus is summoned by a concentration of all of your happiest memories. Without  _ confidence  _ and the knowledge that you have the  _ hope  _ inside you to conjure one, a Patronus cannot become corporeal. Many people only fail because they become so focused on  _ talent  _ or  _ intelligence _ , that they forget the Patronus spell is one of  _ emotion.  _ They aren’t unsimilar from more primitive forms of magic, or even wandless magic.”

The professor’s Patronus disappears with a flicker of glittering blue light, making Daphne Greengrass giggle as the thing brushes once against her hand.

“I desperately hope that none of you will ever need to summon a Patronus,” Professor Lupin begins again, serious once more. “Dementors are  _ terrible,  _ wicked beings. The only place the Ministry of Magic knows they still naturally populate is Azkaban itself.” This draws quite a few shivers from the students. Harry doesn’t know much about Azkaban -- but he knows the Dementors work for Hell in the same way, and he feels a sliver of hatred for the things. It hits him that his Demonic Godfather might be more greatly affected by the dementors than others, and he suddenly decides he has to learn the spell. “But, in the spirit of helping you all to protect yourselves, I would like to teach you the charm for it at the very least.”

Many students have begun to get quite excited. The prospect of learning what sort of animal their Patronus might appear as clearly has much appeal.

“Now, I want you all to begin by thinking of your most happy memories. They can be silly, or foolish. And -- no -- they don’t even have to be real. Just any time you’ve felt true  _ happiness,  _ whatever that might mean for you. Or- for those of you who might have trouble conceptualizing  _ happiness,  _ try to think of laughter. Of jokes, or laughter, or smiles, or a really,  _ really  _ addictive food.”

He gives them a moment to mull it over. Harry thinks that, perhaps, in another world, if Crowley and Aziraphale had never found him, he might have much more trouble. But as is, he thinks of many things. The smell of warm tea accompanied by an evening fire. The fibers of a rug under his fingers, as he sits, listening to Aziraphale detail some misinterpreted bible story. The strange, inviting cold of Crowley’s room, equal parts heat enough for a snake and cold enough for a Demon. And, at the front of it all…

He thinks of black hair and dark skin. He thinks of a redheaded woman, smiling at him, as he’s lifted, high into the air, by a man with a face Harry sees in the mirror every morning. He thinks of the smell of rosemary and baked bread, and he grins.

“Now,” calls Lupin, pulling several students out of closed-eyed, trancelike states. “I’d like all of you to repeat after me: Expecto, Patronum!”

The class obeys, several students tripping over the words and falling into a pit of “patronees” and “paetronis.” This brings quite a few giggles, and Lupin smiles. 

“Once again. Expecto, Patronum!”

Fewer mistakes this time. A bright blue flickers from Harry and a few other’s wands.

The next time, Lupin casts one of his own, as if the last bit of encouragement. Harry looks about -- students are trying it on their own now, shouting and bellowing and hollering in excitement. Ron’s already cast several successful shields of white, though no animal. Neville seems to be struggling a little, but a few sparks appear from the tip of his wand. Hermione, who Harry reckons is probably trying to be intelligent about it as Lupin had said not to be, has yet to cast anything, and is stamping her foot in irritation.

By the end of the class, no one has managed any fully blown Patronus. But, several shields, white-lights, and blue beams later, and almost everyone is breathless and exhilarated, some even saying they want to go seek out a Dementor and try the charm. Professor Lupin threatens them with a month’s worth of detention, though, and the line of thought is dropped. 

And anyways --all of the third years know that there are far more pressing matters to be attended to. Namely:  _ Hogsmeade. _

There isn’t a single third year not excited out of their wits to visit the place. Some, of course, don’t get permission from their parents -- mostly an issue of the serial killer supposedly chasing after one of the said third years -- but Harry, elated again to find himself with  _ actually good guardians,  _ follows Filch all the way to Hogsmeade on light feet.

There, he finds the place is  _ exactly  _ as he’d imagined it. Impossibly steep slopes of snow, houses carved into streets that look like something out of a fairytale. Shops with all manner of magical things. Candy, food, animals, novelties, books, and all. He’s already visited the place with his Godparents -- seeing as their apartment is located within -- but seeing it now? In daylight, with friends and people laughing, scattered about in picturesque scenery? It’s completely different.

To conserve time, they all visit one shop per person for their first visit. Hermione spends ages in a bookstore, pouring over a few ancient-looking volumes on forms of patron-fueled magic. Neville rivals her time in an herb shop, haggling with a woman over tentacula stems like it’s his birthright. Harry finds himself fascinated by the place too, but his calling is at  _ Honeydukes _ . As soon as he steps within, he knows he plans to buy half the stock. Ron wasn’t kidding about the variety. And, topping off their trip, they walk to Zonkos, buying as many things they think might annoy Snape as they can.

In the end, they’re all well and truly exhausted. None of them are really inclined to head back to the castle early, though, and so they end up making their way toward the most unattractive part of the town. The Shrieking Shack, as Hermione tells them, is rumored to be the most haunted place in Britain. People often report hearing agonized screaming -- that, reportedly, of the dead and dying -- to rival a banshee’s.

“Then why are we going there again?” Ron asks nervously, wringing his hands through the straps of his bag as they approach. 

“Because it’s creepy,” says Harry matter-of-factly.

“Because it’s  _ historic,”  _ corrects Hermione with a snort. “I just think it’s interesting, Ronald.”

“Alright, that’s all well and good, Hermione, but it’s not exactly got anything to do?” Neville shrugs. “Are we just gonna… stare at it?”

“Yes!” She snaps, though there’s no harsh bite to the words. “Is that really so crazy? I just want to look at a creepy historical attraction-”

“Well, well, well.” 

Everyone swivels round in an instant. The voice comes as surprise -- but, the face attached to it does not. Draco Malfoy, once again, stands in their path. Crabbe and Goyle stand behind him, but the look of worry in their eyes when they see how agitated Harry is already is a bit hilarious.

“Going house shopping, Weasley? You and your little Mudblood girlfriend-”

“Shut your slick little mouth, Malfoy,” growls Ron, hand going toward the wand in his back pocket. “Or I’ll sew it shut for you.”

“Ohoho! Big words for a Blood Traitor,” drawls the other boy, taking another step forward and drawing his wand. “So, what is this? Are we trying to  _ duel?” _

“I’ll break your stupid nose again,” warns Harry, who is more than prepared to discard his wand and start punching now that there is no newly-unincarcerated half-giant professor’s job to jeapordize. Dueling, in his opinion, is just a fancy way to get someone’s eyes poked out.

“Oh, really, Potter. Uncivilized. You really live up to your creepy redheaded Godf-”

“It’ll be your neck if you don’t shut your  _ mouth, Malfoy,”  _ he hisses. He refuses to sit there and allow his family be insulted -- least of all Crowley or Aziraphale -- and he makes it clear with his words as a  _ warning _ . He’s unsure of whether it’s Parsletongue or not, but the noises that come from Crabbe and Goyle -- no less than a whimper -- are enough to give him some form of satisfaction. Even Malfoy looks cowed to an extent. 

Maybe it’s unhealthy to want bastards to be scared of him. Or- at the least -- a bit nervous. Then again, Harry finds that them being scared is preferable to hurling slurs at his friends. Unfortunately, crabbe and Goyle suddenly turning white, turning, and sprinting away, does not make him any happier.

It takes a moment, but he quickly realizes they’re frightened of something behind the group. Harry turns first, leaving Malfoy’s eye contact and turning to the rabble of home behind him.

The snow washes the landscape out. It’s white, blindingly so, to the point where the only thing that stands out at all is the huge, towering structure of the Shrieking Shack. It seems to sway in the afternoon wind, winding upward in such a way that the fabric fluttering out from within the windows looks like great, twitching eyelashes; the icicles below them, their tears. The landscape is endlessly barren, deep in such a way that Harry is reminded of the Dementor’s mouth if it had been surrounded instead by a hood of white. 

Then, he sees it.

A flicker of black. A man, standing, just inches to the left of the house, as if an extension of it. Where the building sways, he is perfectly, eerily still. Everyone, breath and blood and tree leaves, goes completely silent. The man stands there, legs only barely parted, arms lax in his front and the back of his palms nearly touching, his head hung and shaggy black hair waving in the wind. 

The man lifts his head. In the white of the snow, it's as if he doesn’t have a face. Only skin, blurred out in the way that white landscapes do with anything occupying them. Then, it registers. Sirius Black starts to run toward them.

He sprints, and Harry is suddenly filled with a hysterical, visceral fear, as if every nerve in his body is letting out a chuckle, asking itself: _ “Is this really happening?” _ The entire group -- Malfoy included -- seems to recognize the man in an instant and go running just as fast, arms jostling each other and bags completely forgotten. Even Malfoy has the good sense to help them back through the trees, grabbing Neville’s arm when the boy falls and hauling him up with a cry of alarm as Black’s frantic footsteps chase them through the forest. 

After what feels like hours, of huffing breaths and panicked shouts of  _ faster!  _ They break the treeline. Hogsmeade is unchanged, if a bit quieter -- they must be some of the only students left, only a few sixth or seventh-years trudging about in the afternoon quiet. There’s no time to stop, of course, and they dash as quick as they can into the nearest pub.

There, they find, it’s apparently an adult's only night. A pair of shrunken and shriveled heads shout at them to “Get out!” Before they stutter into giggles, watching the pale-faced group before them with amusement. They stand there, listening to the cheery music scratching out of some record, the hubbub of human discussion, civil and regulated. Adults start to notice the group a moment later, though, and Harry’s rising sense of alarm grows as they all start to glare.

“What is going on?” Asks Professor McGonagall, having just come inside the pub, standing behind them in the doorway. The record player halts in respect. And, Harry finds that he has gone utterly, embarrassingly, speechless.

Then, Malfoy, as if nothing about the encounter had frightened him at all, steps forward, and reports:

“Sirius Black.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things:
> 
> Yes! This version of events where Harry goes ape on Malfoy and Malfoy gets a broken nose seems a bit more extreme than the book! Especially for a fic with a supposed "redemption arc" for Malfoy. I don't care. it will work out!! I promise! I had it go this way for reasons! I promise! Sometimes things get worse before they get better, as much as that particular AO3 tag scares me.
> 
> I thought Lupin was probably better off doing a Patronus class in this first class of his for a few reasons! He now knows that dementors can die. He's watched someone kill them. He's not entirely sure how they did it? But he doesn't want any of the students getting cocky and trying to approach dementors even if they feel that they're protected. So, by showing them both the importance and the difficulty of a patronous charm, he hopes to at least give them some idea of what they're facing, and some defense. Also, I just didn't want to spend ages figuring out what Harry's boggart should be. I have a couple ideas, butttt....... eh. If anyone has any burning desires or suggestions, toss em my way in the comments!
> 
> Malfoy wasn't super frightened of Black in the end. I know, for a coward, that's awfully brave. Here's my thing: Mafloy thinks Black is a Death Eater. Malfoy's father happens to be one of the most famous Death Eaters to not be arrested. So, while he's definitely SCARED (Very much so) he A) Has no reason to think Black will murder HIM and B) Knows better than to show a bunch of fear to one of the most feared Death Eaters of all time.
> 
> If you've got any more questions, ideas, thoughts, etc, comments make life warm and fuzzy or whatever! (In all seriousness, all of the comments you all give me make me so incredibly happy. Even when I don't get a chance to respond. Thank you.)


	4. A Grim Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a month to get this chapter out and missed the one-year anniversary of this fic.... AHHHHHHHH
> 
> You guys!!! I have been doing this for a year! You have been following it for a year!!!!!!!! Your support means so, so much to me, and I can't thank you all enough for sticking around so long.
> 
> I'm sorry this chapter isn't anything too fascinating, I just think I need to leave it at this so I can get out longer and more interesting chapters soon. I hope that you all enjoy!

Crowley and Aziraphale only notice that Harry and his friends are missing  _ after  _ the attack.

Sirius Black breaks into the castle, tears into the Fat Lady’s portrait, and then promptly throws the Gryffindor common room into complete disarray. (Her real name is Grace, as Minerva corrects Albus.) 

Crowley and Minerva search the room with growing despair, finding that black has borne the brunt of his attack on Ron’s belongings, not Harry’s. His things are tossed about the ground and torn apart, and Minerva works quickly to fix what she can as Crowley continues the search. Scabbers is nowhere to be found. Neither are Crookshanks or The Dog, notes Crowley, growing steadily more annoyed with the alleged murderer.

By the time Crowley and a few of the older students have finished putting the beds back in their right shape, Minerva, who had gone on to retrieve the rest of the students from Hogsmeade, returns. She’s a frenzied energy as she marches into the building, announcing her presence with a dissipating shield charm and a shout for her headmaster. Harry, Ron, Neville, Hermione, and  _ Draco Malfoy  _ all find themselves being thoroughly interrogated and searched, each of them in varying stages of surprise and fright. 

Aziraphale, as he listens to the group recount their chase, remembers his initial impression of Sirius Black. A tall, stormy boy, with black eyes and hair to match. He’d been clutching James’ hand and glaring at everyone about. But, at the core, Aziraphale had known the boy had been good. He finds himself equal parts confused and angry now, because whether Black had cruel intentions, there was no need for…  _ whatever  _ it was he had been aiming for.

A lengthy search is conducted the moment the students have all been shoved into the Great Hall. With a blessing of safety and good sleep, the teachers set off and scour the campus, turning over every brick and knocking on doors in Hogsmeade all through the night. But, just as suspected, Black has flown. Whatever insanity ravages his mind has clearly not dulled his intelligence.

Deep into midnight, with the sort of disposition reflected in a cup of tea, Aziraphale finds Remus, the only other person he can rely on for word of Black. Their closeness was something far more than James, or Lily, or Peter’s ever had been, and the Angel smiles as he steps into the man’s office. He startles as the door shuts, hands formerly planted on his knees coming up to lurch for his wand. At the appearance of his fellow coworker, Remus visibly relaxes.

“Oh- Zira. Did you need something?”

He’s silent for a moment, considering the other professor with a look he hopes isn’t too obvious. Then, with a sigh, he speaks. “You ought to be asleep as well, Remus. I suppose most of the teachers must’ve gone by now.”

The man quirks his lips into a smile, pushing a few papers way before standing, addressing Aziraphale a bit awkwardly. “You and I both know that my… nocturnal preferences extend to more than just when the moon is full. Is this about Black?”

“Ah- yes- I… Well, yes. I don’t mean to… accuse you of anything-” Lupin’s face falls- he goes to sit again “-But I  _ was  _ wondering if you had any clue where he  _ might  _ be? I have no doubt,” explains Aziraphale hastily, flushing at his own presumptuousness, “That you have absolutely no clue where he is! Don’t think of me unkindly- I only wonder if there might’ve been any place he might be hiding? Any place from childhood?”

Remus, looking a bit unsteady -- but certainly relieved to not be the target of another interogation-- shakes his head. “I’d assume he was staying at the Shack until young Mr. Potter and his friends found him there. That’s where…” He rubs at the bridge of his nose, as if massaging out a great headache, and sighs, dropping his hand back to the table and returning to shuffling his papers. “That’s where I was meant to ride out nights at. Made it quieter, though it stirred up many a nasty rumor.”

“And… he accompanied you?” Aziraphale frowns. “I’d assumed, seeing as you probably couldn’t control your state as a child, it wouldn’t be safe?”

Lupin’s face goes a little grey, and he chuckles in an awkward sort of way that seems to shout at Aziraphale to please stop asking questions. “Well, he… er… I suppose I can tell you, can’t I? What’s one more crime for the record…” A deep sigh. A chuckle, more awkward than before. “He was an unregistered animagus. Which- I’ve wondered if your Anthony might be as well, so...:” he waves a vaguely threatening hand. “Semantics.”

“He- he was an animagus. An animagus of what?”

“A dog,” Remus says. “James happened to be a deer, Peter a rat.” When the man looks back up, he startles, Aziraphale’s face having gone a bright, pale white. “Are you alright, Z-”

“Ah- yes!” says the Angel, high pitched, anxious. “All- al tickety boo, here, fine and dandy! It’s just- erm-”

“What is it? Have you seen him?” He moves out from behind his desk with urgency, eyes dark. “Fell, you know that he’s dangerous, where did you-”

“You. May have seen him too?”

This stops Lupin. He pauses, considering the idea for a moment or two. It takes him a second, but as he connects the dots. He blanches, his knees locking backward so hard he has to steady himself on a nearby desk. He lets out a low whistle, eyes wide with disbelief.

“I- I know,” Aziraphale says, voice still trembling. “Believe me, we had no  _ idea!  _ The mutt felt- well, it felt  _ familiar _ , of course, but I assumed I’d probably seen it some time, fed it,  _ maybe _ , not that it was  _ Sirius Black!” _

“No, no, you couldn’t have known any better than Harry did. I’m to blame, here, I hadn’t seen him in so long on the train-”

“No, no, dear boy, it’s no one's blame.” Aziraphale walks forward and shoves a cup of tea into Remus’s hands, coming quite effortlessly out of nothing. He feels like a bit of a hypocrite -- he’d been so defensive, so  _ careful,  _ trying so hard to protect Harry without scaring him. And now, he’s found that the pet he’d allowed his Godson to have is, quite literally, a convicted murderer. “And- and rest assured, I won’t need to report this to anyone, I’m sure I can handle one murderer more-”

_ “More?” _

“I’ve- I’ve quite literally got Heaven and Hell on my tail, dear, I think I should be alright, so long as you and everyone else steer clear and- and stay safe!” Aziraphale, not quite a master of reassurances, smiles in the way a sweating, terrified politician with a gun to their head might. Remus clearly doesn’t buy it. Quickly trying to redirect the conversation, Aziraphale settles into a desk and picks up a cup of tea that suddenly wants to sit in his hand instead of in a few rooms over. “But, I am curious… Were you never trained at all after you were bitten? Why was it you were required to stay at the Shack?”

Remus shakes his head, clearly not done with the past discussion, but quelled for a moment. “They tried. Some people are able to suppress their transformations, but the method was… unpleasant, and my parents didn’t like seeing me getting hurt.”

Aziraphale pauses.  _ “Hurt?  _ Why was there any need to hurt you?”

“Well, that’s really the only way to do it?” Remus sets the tea down, his face hardening. “They’ve got to… I suppose you’d compare it to breaking a horse, really. Except it’s being conducted on a wolf. And, so, it’s a bit harsher. Unfortunately, though a quite useful procedure, not many people are able to go through with it.

Aziraphale lets out a low breath and feels the thought run over his mind like a hot coal. 

“Is this… is this standard?”

“Amongst those who want it. Werewolves like the one that turned me, Greyback, embrace it. That’s when they get… truly disturbing. He usually chases after… young, the innocents.” Remus looks well and truly disturbed, now, hands clenching his teacup handle, knuckles white. “I believe he was turned as a child. He saw it as a gift, quite useful, in fact.”

“But he is in… relative control of those actions, is he not? That’s what he’s quite famous for? He  _ chooses  _ that violence, it isn’t  _ just  _ his nature.”

Remus nods. “I’ve almost been jealous of him, at times, for that choice.” His voice is soft as he says so. “But it’s really only a thing when you choose to be as violent as a wolf. Then, I’m sure, you have some sort of direction.” He gestures to Aziraphale. “Is anything you do free will, unless you choose to do as human nature says you should?”

Aziraphale, who is certainly not human, frowns and shakes his head. Being of such quality, he’s met hundreds of werewolves over the years. Lycans, wolves, spirits, whatever meant to call them, he had seen them all. It did not feel like a coincidence that he had never heard of such procedures as Remus’s.

“That isn’t that I mean, though. Greyback has complete control of himself. He targeted  _ you  _ directly, and has done so in the past to other people. I’ve heard, amongst Death Eaters, he was known to speak and to understand orders.”

This time, it’s Remus’s turn to be confused. He frowns at Aziraphale, something like offense creeping up his face. 

“Not all of us are lucky to be evil enough to control the darkness inside of us, Fell-“

“No, Remus, you must understand what I mean! Greyback isn’t the only one: only an example. I’ve met other Lycan’s such as yourself before, and they’re quite acceptable! Many of them live lives a bit more animalistic once the full moon rises, but they’ve got much more intelligence than I think you believe is possible.”

“Because it isn’t!” Snaps Remus, losing his temper and patience all at once. “Believe me, Mr. Fell, I have tried my damned  _ hardest  _ to suppress my attacks. I’ve tried so hard I’ve permanently scarred myself and I’ve destroyed what little relationships I had left with my family-“

“That isn’t my  _ point-“ _

“Then  _ what is?” _

“The point is that there’s nothing to  _ suppress,  _ Remus!” 

The man goes quiet in a surge of heaving breath. He sets his teacup down, glares, and listens. Aziraphale only nods his thanks.

“As you said, Greyback is able to control himself because he accepts his violent nature and uses it for his own gain. Do you really think that he just  _ decided  _ to be evil one day? Do you think he might’ve been as lost and as scattered as you seem to think you are? You’ve been suppressing  _ everything,  _ haven’t you, not just attempting to suppress a wolf. When you try to shove away that which is your very nature, you destroy it.” Aziraphale points to himself. “If I were to try and be as cruel as I could, I would  _ fail,  _ not because I do not have the capacity — the Fall proves that we all do — but simply because it would  _ hurt.  _ I do not like being hateful or needlessly mean, and it would be warring with myself to be so.”

“But you’re not an animal, are you,” Remus retorts angrily.

“No, but that doesn’t mean that being one would make you evil. If a bird were to ignore its wings, it would die, wouldn’t it, just dropping on the ground? It’s the same for you. You’ve spent so long destroying everything within yourself in hopes that you can root out one — in your mind — unsavory bit of your nature. In reality, you’re tearing yourself apart. You break and you mess around with all the nuanced bits of humanity and love and regularity inside of you just so that you can try and break the animal that comes with it. But they can  _ coexist,  _ Remus, I promise you they can! Just because your nature, once a month, is to become something else, does not mean that nature is bad, and I am frankly astounded that no one ever thought to help teach you that!”

The room goes silent. Remus sits, face curled up into a sad, shocked expression, as if Aziraphale has slapped him in the face. It’s clear he’s considered the idea before, the deep worry lines in his face exposing more than just anger now. He takes a drink of his tea with a shaking hand and runs the other across the table before him, steadying himself with the grain of the wood, staring at the Angel across from him with the look of a man who has just been shot between his eyes with a paintball. Aziraphale smiles sadly across at him.

“The idea that since you were a child you have been destroying yourself is appalling to me. The idea that you -- and who knows how many others -- think they are broken, or evil, or have been ruined by lycanthropy, is horrible. But dear, you are not  _ any  _ of that.” Aziraphale stands, walks to Remus, and stands just before him at the desk. “If you ever,  _ ever,  _ want to attempt anything I’ve talked about, I would always be willing to help.”

Remus stays quiet. Stunned, and quiet, as Aziraphale searches for an answer, his brow twitching like it isn’t sure what type of emotion it wants to assume. Aziraphale knows he can’t force the man. So, he turns, letting out a sigh and nodding. 

“I would like to,” says Remus softly, abrupt, in the moonlight. “I’d like to learn.”

\---

Despite the fact that a murderer has just broken into Hogwarts, the entire castle resumes its normal proceedings within a day or two after the event. Classes continue, leaving several teachers scrambling to put together lessons that might be helpful against said murderer. 

Crowley teaches his students about a special plant called bloom bombs, which a user can crumple up and toss about as makeshift bombs. Of course, he requests that his students only use them in an emergency. It’s only a coincidence that he winks at Fred and George on their way out of class. Aziraphale sets out books on non-magical defense, hoping that the more resourceful students might be able to learn how to defend themselves in ways that would surprise even the most powerful of wizards. Professor Trelawney attempts to tell everyone they’re to die horrible deaths if they stray off campus, but the students are pretty sure it’d just her odd way of relaying Dumbledore’s message about new rules.

But, in the end, the world continues on. 

When told who The Dog was, Harry seems… relatively unperturbed. He’s clearly more worried about Black than before, and mourns the loss of his pet, but there seems to be more relief that he hasn’t been murdered yet within him. Neville finds the situation a little hilarious. Ron, of course, wants Harry and Neville to stop laughing. Hermione ignores them all -- especially Ron’s complaint that his rat has gone missing -- and cherishes the fact that her own cat is normal. Mostly.

Oliver Wood (and Harry, for that matter,) immediately refocus their obsession back to quidditch. With Malfoy's broken nose having been healed quite efficiently, they’re still on for their game, and the keeper seems concerningly obsessed.

Their Godson and Ron both spend half of their herbology and library time ranting about the situation. Harry, of course, is more worried about being beaten to death by Oliver if he loses than Ron is. Ron seems more inclined to do so himself. Malfoy seems more and more annoyed that Harry hadn’t given him an excuse to skip the game by the day. The wind and rain outside the castle come down harder and faster, blackening the sky and clouds until extra torches must be lit across the school and Crowley is forced to lead his students down to the greenhouses himself every day.

But, Aziraphale and Crowley themselves have more important things to think about. Namely -- the upcoming full moon. The Demon agrees to help Lupin the moment he hears about his issue -- going on a scathing rant about nature and existence and all the noble and frankly, quite funny, werewolves he’s met before, in the Great hall at dinnertime. Dumbledore looks halfway to telling him to please quiet down, while McGonagall and Madame Hooch -- both of Animagus and Harpy lineage separately -- join in, angrily going on about how they aren’t cats or birds just because they  _ can be  _ or  _ could be  _ one. 

Of course, Remus is wary going into the whole thing. He still makes the two promise that should he attack them, they fight back, or at the very least, restrain him. He makes them promise they won’t let him near the castle, or any students, or Hogsmeade or  _ anyone  _ other than the two of them. Really, the half-begging tone to his voice is enough to make Crowley want to go after whoever made him so guilty and behead them.

Of course, nothing comes easily the first time. Aziraphale doesn’t do much other than observe, Crowley wrapped about his shoulders as a snake and watching quietly. Remus is angry as he shifts, coming up as something half-human and half-rage, growling all about as he casts around the shack. But, Aziraphale continues, casting a wide berth around the half-man as he speaks, quiet and reassuring. All Remus must do is be, and be without hindrance, perhaps for the first time in his life.

It isn’t perfect, but the next day, Professor Lupin is present in class.

\---

Unfortunately, Harry finds that he is unable to focus at all on his favorite professor’s class. That is -- favorite just below his godparents. In fact, the entire time, he is completely absorbed in his thoughts of Quidditch. Oliver Wood is persistent in pulling him out of class to give him quidditch tips, and no teachers — besides Snape, McGonagall, and Crowley as of right now — have been brave enough to stop him. Harry suspects Lupin finds it rather funny and allows the antics. 

To be honest, he can’t even blame the older boy. He’s in his seventh and last year at Hogwarts, and it’s a well-known fact that he’s been chasing after the quidditch cup since he  _ joined  _ the team. Fred reckons he’ll be after the World Cup next — Oliver’s got his eyes on joining a certified quidditch team the moment he graduates, and several scouts have already approached him. Though Harry can’t even congratulate the boy, as he’s too busy trying to hang onto his strategies. 

So, when he finds that on the morning of his newest match, he’s a little bit more than just  _ nervous _ , he can’t help but be slightly frustrated. He marches down to the common room at half-past four-something-he-can’t-be-bothered-to-check-in-the-morning and listens as the thunderstorm outside grows louder, breaking down against the glass and stone of the building. It would’ve been almost peaceful, had Harry not been intending to fly in it.

“Morning sunshine,” pipes Fred, looking just as dreadful as Harry. Katie Bell groans miserably from one of the tables nearby, mouth half full of marmalade. “Wood’s in a  _ mood.” _

Turns out, that mood is the same one he’s been having for the past month, amplified by  _ everything.  _ He paces back and forth as he rants, pointing every which way and growling every time he runs out of another type of finger-food to eat. He goes over strategies for over three hours -- in which other students start to filter downstairs, looking pityingly at their team. 

“Stop worrying, Wood,” Angelina tries soothingly, pressing a hand to his shoulder and rolling her eyes when he throws it off. “We can handle a bit of rain.”

They’re only allotted five minutes to talk to their friends and family before the game, as strictly dealt out by Wood. Harry feels quite a bit more like he’s planning his eulogy as he finds Crowley and Aziraphale, huddled under a far too extravagant umbrella (and he does wonder who’s idea the lace was) as the rain pours down on them.

“Oh, Harry!” Aziraphale waves him over to the steps up to the professor’s stand and beams proudly. “How are you feeling?”

“Like Wood’ll shove me off m’ broom if I'm not careful.”

Crowley laughs, the umbrella closing and tucking beneath his arm as they squeeze their way into the underside of the box. “Well- I guess you’d better- ngk- be careful then, hm?”

“Perhaps,” agrees Aziraphale. Harry smiles --then smiles a little harder, as Crowley leans over and gives him a short hug. Aziraphale next, grinning wildly. “You’d better…” he makes an odd maneuver with his hand as if he’s trying to pump his fist. “Beat them good, then!”

Harry grimaces a little at this but accepts the gesture well enough. One last moment -- and an odd new spell that Crowley had learned, effortlessly defogging Harry’s glasses and his own sunglasses -- and Harry’s off, shaking his head when the two start back up the stairs, arm in arm. 

He knows that Aziraphale doesn’t quite get quidditch. Or any other sport, for that matter. Crowley doesn’t especially like it either, even if he thinks the flying part of it is intriguing. But… their support is more than enough.

Harry marches out of the stands and into the field with determination. 

The Slytherins stride out with a matched view of the field. They glare, snigger, naturally, but it’s clear that they’re just as determined to win, and the rain is just as nerve-wracking. Wood and Flint walk up and shake hands, the former looking as if they have lockjaw as he stares Flint down. Harry pulls his foot up out of the mud and over his broom at Madam Hooch’s request, and, all in an instant, the whistle is blown and they’re off.

The wind is instantly ten times worse. It’s still hard to see, even with unfogged, clear glasses, the rain a downpour and the cloud cover a veritable shroud. He flies high above the game, into the grey, a cacophony of lightning and thunder shaking the sky as he whizzes back and forth. Malfoy seems just as determined as Harry to win, flitting about and not even sparing a moment to taunt the warring team.

Lightning illuminates the crowd. Harry’s Nimbus drops nearly five feet through the air, his chest going as cold as his skin at the feeling of a sudden drop. He flattens his body to the broom and pushes his bangs back from his eyes, shooting off in the instant that the white light shows him the field.

Gryffindor has the upper hand. He can only barely hear Lee over the din of the crowd and the energetic crashing of thunder, tumultuous rain pulsing at his back. The last he’d heard: his home team was up by fifty points. So he flies onward, darting toward the opposite end of the field and spectating with narrowed eyes. 

Malfoy goes flying past. His chest is tucked to his broom, his hand outstretched, his teeth grit as he jets past Harry, ignoring the other boy entirely as a streak of golden goes printing past. Harry turns his broom in an instant, flying quick as he can toward the blonde as Malfoy shouts, angry, the snitch just barely beyond him. It drops quickly, giving Harry a sudden opening, whizzing down and past the other boy, gloved hands sweating in the cold evening air as it nears his grip. 

“Come on,” he growls at his Nimbus, teeth bared in a snarl, “faster!”

But something is happening.

Something deeply, frigidly wrong. Something that makes the stadium’s roar fall to a quiet, the wind following suit, suddenly forgetting how to scream. Lightning devoid of thunder flashes in the distance, the hands weather clashing silent as Harry rides. He pushes, only the barest sounds reaching his ears -- someone is shouting for him to  _ stop -- _

Malfoy is nowhere to be seen. The snitch is inches away. He lurches- his hands- his fingers twitch- the gold presses into his palm- and-

Cold. Dead, horrible, cold, waving through him and hitting him like a hammer. He doubles over, curling with the snitch still in his grasp, and catches a glimpse of the field below him, far beneath the clouds.

Hundreds of Dementors circle, their heads all shedding their hoods and their faces pointed right into his soul. Someone screams, and a wave of something terrible passes over him. He shouldn’t be here, flying, playing this trivial game, not when this person is screaming, her voice agonized, a flash of green accompanying every terrified shout- Harry’s hands slip, the snitch falling, the broom disappearing, the crowd and the field and the dementors fading away entirely, his thighs no longer around the handle, his legs kicking through the air, screaming filling his ears, oh  _ god- _

It isn’t that no one  _ wanted  _ Harry Potter to be caught. It isn’t that they wanted to see him fall, broken, smashed against the ground in a tumble that would’ve killed him the moment his back hit the ground. No: A great many screams hit the air as a small child's body, with its cape whipping behind it, starts to fall. The form is prone and motionless, accepting or unaware of their fate. Dumbledore stands, his hand outstretched and parting a great sea of dementors, about to catch the child. 

Something else stops the fall.

A great, white-black eruption of light. Feathers and bright, endless gold, shake themselves off as they wrap about the boy, ignoring the wind and the water as if it’s merely too unimportant to touch it.

Harry Potter appears in the middle of the field, and Crowley, who had never  _ really  _ moved, nods at Aziraphale.

\---

“I dare say, Albus, it really does seem like intentional sabotage!” Minerva looks at the Headmaster and raises her wand, not really intending to use it. “Need I remind you that Mr. Potter would have  _ died  _ had Professor Crowley not intervened?”

“I do not need a reminder, Minerva,” Albus responds gently. He plants his hands against his desk and looks at her, firm. “I fully intend to take care of the dementors. Cornelius has already-”

She scoffs. “Sir, to the devil with Fudge! These creatures are a  _ menace.  _ If Fudge truly believes a school filled with magical experts cannot defend its students against Sirius black, then perhaps he had better come here and send a squad of Aurors himself!”

“Or-” Starts Crowley, who has been looking at every single professor other than Azirpahale, Minerva, Hagrid, Lupin and anyone else who doesn’t care to oppose him like they’ve just thrown a vase of holy water at him. “Or, you could acknowledge that you’re all bloody useless, and you could send someone out on the grounds to  _ track Black!  _ Harry,  _ dare I imply,  _ should not continue to serve as- asss your bloody  _ bait!” _

“The dementors are necessary for the safety of students outside of Potter-”

Crowley whips around and glares quite nastily at Snape, shutting him up with quite a powerful look. “But they’re not- are they? They’ve been- been- oh-  _ oh I don’t know-  _ sending students into fits! Throwing them off their broomsticks!” He waves a hand in the air and lets out something akin to a snarl. “When have they really helped anyone? In fact- In-  _ in fact-  _ they served positively useless against Black when he chased after Harry Potter and  _ four other people!” _

“Then what do you propose we  _ do,  _ professor?”

“I- I propose someone actually goes after Black. Someone goes and finds him before any more students can add to their bloody lists of  _ near-death experiences.”  _ Crowley looks about. The other professors, frozen in their spots, stare back, faces varying, guilty or confused or haughty. He coughs out a laugh -- a slithering, angry thing from the back of his throat. “You mean to tell me that none of you even  _ considered  _ just hunting him down?”

The resounding silence speaks bounds. Crowley scoffs, planting his hands on the table with a twist of his wrist. The twin looks on Minerva and Albus’s faces do nothing to quell his anger when the deputy headmaster steps forward.

“Anthony… I’m sure you’re aware of the situation of Sirius Black, are you not?”

He turns to her and frowns. “Huh?”

“That he is Harry’s-”

“Oh-” Crowley waves a hand about and scowls, dismissing the discussion. “Of  _ course  _ I know. Aziraphale won’t let up about him.” 

“Then you must understand the intricacies of this situation!” And, though Crowley has liked Minerva thus far, he will  _ not  _ tolerate the complicity of her actions. Of  _ any  _ of their actions, his own included, gnawing at his chest in an unfamiliar bite. He glares at her, whirling around and hoping she knows he’s sparing her thus far.

Then, the door to Albus’s study opens. Aziraphale walks in with a look of disquiet on his face. Madam Pomfrey follows behind, clearly enraged.

“Civility,” starts the Angel, his voice a neatly wrapped and boxed up stovetop, “Is important. All of you need to calm down. We won’t get  _ anywhere  _ while bickering about the situation like children.”

“Yes… But children may be the very best of us right now.” Remus, who had been standing quietly in a corner for the discussion, avoiding the stormy tempers of his coworkers, takes a step forward with a contemplative look and more experience with Dementors than nearly any else in the room. “We all need to find a solution rationally.”

Aziraphale walks to Crowley as the man talks. Face soft even within his anger, the Angel smiles at his Demon, their hands interlacing in a moment of comfort. Crowley leans over, shoulder hitting his Angel’s, his gaze still firmly on Remus, his attention elsewhere. 

_ “I’m tired,”  _ whispers Crowley, with eyes behind black glasses that tell far more than his clenched first or rigid posture do. Aziraphale, with eyes well kept behind shields more physical than glass, nods, his gaze sweeping across the table. They have both been taking losses for years.

_ “I know,” _ Aziraphale whispers back, as the two lean a bit closer.

“The Dementors cannot be allowed to stay on campus, for a start.”

Albus nods at Minerva, a deep crease between his brows. Where Crowley had seen complacency, Aziraphale notices the anger hidden behind the soft steel of his eyes. “I’m sure many peeved owls from parents have already started to arrive to pester Hagrid. I won’t allow the Dementors back onto this campus, so long as they pose  _ any  _ threat to those inside of it.” 

“And who do you suggest will protect them in the meantime?” Croaks Professor Binns. The ghostly man drifts forward with a sagging look, his confusion shared by several others. “It will be a maelstrom of letters if you allow our walls to collapse, Professor, with all due respect.”

“I was not kidding when I suggested Cornelius send in a team of Aurors if he truly trusts us so little.” Minerva looks up at Crowley with an expression indecipherable. “I won’t allow any of my students to fall prey to anything, jailer or jailed.”

“I hardly believe Aurors will be necessary, given the situation.” Snape’s uncaring drawl is palpable, his distaste for Black clearly not just because of some inch of worry for his students. “Black is a crazed, furious maniac. We, as Hogwarts stuff, should have no trouble  _ dealing with him.  _ Hm?”

“Well, you don’t exactly have an excellent track record…”

Snape sends a stink eye to Aziraphale. If his greasy hair hadn’t been an inch away from flying into his mouth, the Angel likely would’ve taken him more seriously. As it is, he just smiles pleasantly, Crowley snorting out a laugh at his side. 

“I believe there was some merit to Anthony’s suggestion,” says Filius, a hand stroking his beard in stereotypical contemplation. “We could certainly try to hunt him down.”

“And I’d be willing to volunteer.” Aziraphale nods to himself at his own answer. “That’s settled, then.”

“Really?” Minerva looks at him suspiciously. “Just like that, Zira? Are you quite certain?”

The Angel, clearly taking a bit of offense, snorts. It’s lucky that he is an Angel and not a Demon — for his testiness, as clear, is not of the same vein as Crowley’s. “Of course I’m certain, Minerva,  _ really!  _ I’d think you’ve no faith in me at  _ all.” _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is COMPLETELY random, but: I'm very curious to see what happens when Wattpad users move to ao3. I've always found the app to be clogged with a lot of mess and hard to use. I tried posting this fic on there ages ago and it actually just did not work. No hate to anyone who does enjoy it though! Just not my cup of tea.

**Author's Note:**

> Psst Psst: Kudos and comments are the best things ever, I always appreciate exactly what you all have to tell me :)
> 
> (Also! For new readers! This story takes several liberties with its source. JK Rowling is a bitch, and I can't stand her. So any inconsistencies with character's actions, races and their duties, rules of the world, etc, are probably intentional. Like the "Goblins" at Gringotts being house elves? That was intentional. Please be kind when pointing out flaws or holes in the plot. Some of them are likely there for a reason. And don't forget -- this is fanfiction. If I make some odd choices, then they're probably going to make more sense later. I've got two worlds to mix here, and I'm trying my best!)


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